


Chocolate Frogs and Sugar Quills

by Coyote Laughing Softly (BitterNovember)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection, Romance, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 84,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterNovember/pseuds/Coyote%20Laughing%20Softly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shots and prompts; a flavor of romione for every mood. (Various ratings within, marked appropriately.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lean (T)

A.N. Greetings! I know right now that some of you are looking at this suspiciously. ' _Why isn't this an update for To Know You is to Love You? If she could write this, then she could have updated sooner!'_ But there you would be wrong. Writing is a funny thing. Sometimes, no matter how much you want to write something, the right words refuse to come. And I would rather take the time to get it right, rather than insulting you with something half-assed just to keep to a schedule. Several months ago on Tumblr, I opened up my ask box for prompts, only expecting to get two or three at the most. They have continued to pour in since then, and I have completed at least twenty. I write them to refresh myself, in between sessions of writing TKYITLU. I've had requests to put them up here, so, here we are. Now, my main focus is TKYITLU. That isn't going to change, until it's finished. But I will also be posting these from a backlog, and since they've already been written for months, they aren't taking up any writing time. Some of these fics will be T, and others M; some will be funny, and others serious. None are connected unless stated otherwise. Now, I'm just going to leave this here before diving into my regular writing...

**Prompt: Hermione returns from her last year at Hogwarts to discover that Ron has not been dealing with the aftermath of the war as well as he has lead people to believe...**

Hermione grabbed her beaded bag off the top of her dresser, and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She had decided against anything fancy, and was wearing jeans and an indigo blue shirt in a soft material that had loose, floaty sleeves to hide her scar. Glancing outside, she saw that her parents' car was gone, meaning they had already left for work. She had said goodbye at breakfast, so that was fine. Things were still rather awkward between them, and she was glad to finally get away for awhile; she had stayed to spend time with them for the past three days after graduating, and that was enough.

Really, though, she missed Ron. He hadn't been able to make the last couple of Hogsmeade visits, and the letters, though they meant so much, just weren't cutting it. She needed to _see_ him. To see if his hair had grown out from his Mum cutting it, so the edges curled over his collar. To watch as the left corner of his mouth raised a little higher than the right whenever he smiled, and the way his lanky body seemed to take up the entire length of the sofa when he sprawled out. She wanted to revel in the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, and how they darkened when he pulled her close. She needed to _hear_ him. The laugh that was rarer but all the sweeter for it while he was getting over the war. The sound of his snoring in her ear, and the inflection he wrapped around her name. She needed to _feel_ him. His arm draped across her waist as they slept; his breath on the back of her neck. The way his lips felt on hers, and her neck, and her-

She had always lived vicariously through books, traveling to far off lands and times, experiencing lives far different from hers. But words on paper could never do Ron justice; her imagination paled in comparison to his reality.

Giddy with excitement, she Apparated away, landing precisely on the top stair of Grimmauld Place. Taking a few moments, she attempted to compose herself; then gave it up. Why should she try to hide how excited she was to see him? She had spent too many years hiding her emotions from him, and he always seemed so happy when she expressed them. And she very, _very_ much wanted to make him happy. With a slight smirk, she wondered if they would make it past the sofa.

The sitting room was cool and dark, the thick, heavy green curtains pulled tightly closed to prevent the smallest sliver of light to shine through. Ron sat on the deep brown sofa, hunched over with his face in his hands. He was breathing shallowly, trying to suppress the nausea that had slowly been increasing in the past few months. He should probably eat something, he knew, but he had no appetite. He had no energy, either, and he wondered if that wasn't why George had sent him home. He had arrived at the shop at his usual time, pasting on the same smile as he did every day, but it must be wearing thin. George had at first seemed surprised to even see him, and had then looked at him too closely for comfort. He had slapped Ron on the shoulder, telling him to take a few days off. Ron, who had been feeling light-headed, had swayed under the force of his brother's hand, and agreed.

He had felt horribly guilty for leaving, but George acted like he was doing well. He'd been much better, these past three months, although Ron still caught him staring off into space with a lost expression, when he didn't think anyone was looking. But he was already back to experimenting with new products, and even if he wasn't always as enthusiastic as he was before, it was a step in the right direction. Ron was just happy that he didn't have to watch him every night to make sure he didn't drown in his own sick.

Releasing a shaky sigh, he told himself to get it together. Hermione was coming tomorrow, and he couldn't let her see the shit state he was in. She had enough to worry about, with her parents, and finding a job and all. At least her nightmares were getting better, and Ginny had written to say that she was much less jumpy. She still scanned rooms when she entered, and didn't like anyone sneaking up on her, but it wasn't as noticeable. Hermione had written much the same about Ginny. In a fit of what he had considered pure brilliance, he had taken each one to the side before they went back to Hogwarts, and asked them to keep an eye on the other for him, since he wouldn't be there. He knew both of them were stubborn as hell, and wouldn't ask for help, but that they wouldn't be able to resist doing for the other. He hated that that was as much as he could do, along with letters and a handful of visits. He felt like he had so much to make up for.

He was doing his best at that with the rest of his family and Harry, although it was harder with Harry off training most of the time. He spent most days with George, in the shop; that was a lot easier now that he wasn't worried that George would do something...drastic if left by himself. When he wasn't with him, he was at the Burrow, making sure his Mum had someone with her while his dad was at work. He spent more time with his dad in the evenings, and tried to squeeze Bill and Percy into the time left over from that. Charlie was back with his dragons, and Ron made sure to write him frequently. Bill was on top of the world, proud as could be with his daughter. Percy seemed to be doing the same as Ron; he threw himself into working for Kingsley, but his spare moments were either at the Burrow, or with George. They hadn't done so well there, for awhile, but things were going much better than they had been.

Still nothing he could do for Fred. As much as he helped the rest of the family, his brother would still be under six feet of packed earth. Making sure George didn't join him had seemed to be the best thing he could do...it still didn't erase the guilt. Each day since the wedding, while he was with Harry and Hermione, he had felt guilty for leaving his family. Never knowing if they were in trouble or not ate him alive, coming up with all sorts of scenarios where something could happen to one or more of the m that he could've prevented. The part of his brain that had beaten the giant chess game at age eleven knew how idiotic it was to think that. His family had safeguards put up for nearly every possible emergency, and they had all been practicing attacks and defenses, whether they admitted it to each other or not.

He had also known just how likely it was for all of them, in a family as large and active as they were, to make it through the war alive. Not to put too fine a point on it; he had thought he'd be the one to snuff it. He was less than thrilled with the idea. There were things he wanted to do, witches he needed to tell that he...but if someone had to be sacrificed, he was willing for it to be him. Not that life worked that way. Not even with magic. Still, he had felt that it was unfair that any Death Eater could find his family, while he was hidden.

The guilt had swung the other way after the night he left; he could never bring himself to sleep in the warm, snug bed that Fleur had made up for him, with Harry and Hermione still out on their own. He went over the fight over and over, Hermione's screams a constant echo in his head. With the locket gone, he was able to see how much of a bastard he had been to them, and it made him physically ill. He had promised himself he would make it up to all of them, somehow, but then there was the Manor and Hogwarts andeverytingfallingtoshitaroundhimandmovingtoofastforhimtocatchuppleaseMerlinmakeitstopevenifit'sonlyforaminute-

"Young master?" A voice croaked near his elbow.

Ron slammed backwards at the sound, never having noticed that his body had begun to curl up into itself. He swallowed, trying not to snap at the elf that watched him warily. Kreacher had vastly improved since the first time they had met him, although he was still rather crusty. He also wasn't always quite right in the head, and would frequently begin mumbling to himself, but at least it wasn't the filth he used to spout. Hermione, of course, had wanted him to be freed; Harry and Ron had mostly agreed with her. Mostly, because he wasn't exactly young, and it would be hard for him to get used to somewhere else. They had reached a compromise, finally. Kreacher was free to live in the mansion for the rest of his life, or until he found someplace he'd rather be. He was also free to come and go as he pleased, was given a small room of his own in the attic, and only two things were asked of him in exchange. The first being that he vowed never to do anything that might harm the people that lived at Grimmauld Place, including their families and friends. The second was that he cooked on a fairly regular basis, because aside from eggs, bacon, and toast, he and Harry were shite in the kitchen.

Kreacher had been happy with the arrangement, which meant that Hermione had been happy (once the heads had finally been removed from the wall and provided with proper burials), which meant that Harry and Ron could be happy. Kreacher had had light duty; Harry was gone nearly all the time, and the little Ron spent here, he hardly ate. Kreacher pottered about the place, cleaning mostly out of habit; he seemed more relaxed when he was working, though he was free to turn any request down. He never had yet, though Ron thought he caught a shadow flash through those large, milky black eyes that promised some sort of trouble coming up.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Will young master be needing anything special today?"

Ron started to tell him, as he had many times before, that he didn't need to call him 'master.' But Kreacher would only ignore it, so he didn't bother. "No, thanks. I think I'm gonna go upstairs and have a kip; I'll make a sandwich or something when I get hungry."

Ron stood, swaying on his feet, something niggling at his brain. "Oh! Um, if you have time, would you mind clearing out my room before Hermione comes tomorrow? Don't want her to worry if she sees the...stuff."

By 'stuff,' he meant the disturbingly large amount of empty vials of Dreamless Sleep.

Kreacher gave him the same look that George had earlier. "Master wants Kreacher to get them out...before tomorrow?" He asked carefully.

"Yeah, if you can. If not, I'll do it later tonight."

"Kreacher would be pleased to see to the problem," he answered, giving a small bow before shuffling out of the room.

Ron picked up the crumpled robes he had tossed across the back of the sofa. He also needed to make sure he had something decent to wear tomorrow; better than the current jeans and tatty t shirt he was currently sporting. Something that maybe hid how thin he was...which reminded him that he needed to let Kreacher know that he was taking Hermione out for dinner that day, and they wouldn't need him to cook. Until breakfast. The thought brought a smile to his face, easing the creases around his eyes and mouth.

"Ron?" A softer voice called to him, one that he hadn't been expecting.

Hermione stood in the doorway, staring at Ron. She hadn't bothered to knock, since she was expected, and had walked right in. The house was quiet, but she had expected that; Harry wasn't here, And the loudest Ron got when he was alone was during a Quidditch match on the wireless. She had expected to find him draped along the sofa with a Quidditch magazine, or an Auror training manual. Or possibly in the kitchen, having a mid-morning snack. She hadn't expected to find him standing in the sitting room, looking as if he could barely manage to keep himself upright.

In the poor light, her first impression had been that he had the mother of all hangovers, but that assumption was quickly dispelled when she looked at him more closely. His skin had always been pale, but now there was an unhealthy pallor, looking as if it would be dry and papery to the touch. His hair was dull and brittle, the warm glow that she had loved seeming to have been snuffed out like a candle. He was so thin! Not as bad as when the war ended, but he should have put on much more weight by now. She knew she was still lacking in that department, but her appetite still wasn't back to normal; Ron should be miles ahead of her.

When he turned at her voice, she saw that the worst part was his eyes. Not the fact that they were sunken and bruised looking; that was almost expected, given the rest of him. It was the raw, hopelessly haunted look that made her gasp, her hand raising to her heart, which ached sharply. He hadn't looked that bad since the locket. Wait. No. This was worse. With the locket, there had at least been the anger to give him some life. Now, he was more like an animated corpse.

"Hermione? What...what are you doing here?" He asked, sounding confused, and a little worried.

She was worried as well; had whatever was the matter with him affected his mind, as well? Slowly she approached him, as one might a wounded dog; it had always been friendly before, but now you weren't quite sure where you stood with it.

"You invited me, remember?"

"Yeah, but we said Friday. You're a day early. Did something happen? Are your parents being difficult again?"

His voice was concerned, and he crossed the room as he spoke, his arms going around her as he looked for signs of distress. Hermione relaxed. Whatever it was, he hadn't been cursed with dark magic. She brought her arms up to circle his waist, frowning when she felt more bones than she should.

"Ron, it _is_ Friday. Are you feeling well? Should we go to St. Mungo's?"

Ron scratched the bridge of his nose, mentally kicking himself at his carelessness. It was bad enough he had lost track of the date; he had hoped to spruce himself up some before Hermione saw him.

"What, are you saying I look bad, or something?" He joked feebly, hoping to distract her.

Hermione raised her hands to his face, tracing over the curve of his cheekbone, running a thumb across his jaw. She brushed the fringe away from his forehead, wincing as it crackled like straw.

"This isn't funny! You look like you can barely stand-here, let's move to the sofa," she suggested, leading him to sit down.

She curled up beside him, taking his left hand between hers. "Now, tell me what's happened."

He shrugged, not sure what to say. There was no way he was going to tell her about all the mental things in his head. It was better if she didn't know. It was better for _him._ He couldn't quite meet her eyes; his kept sliding down and to the left.

"Nothing! I've just been working really hard lately, is all. A few night's sleep, and I'll be fine."

Hermione bit her lip. she could tell he was lying. Ron wasn't a liar, and whenever he tried, he was horribly obvious. Somehow, she was going to have to pry it out of him. Whatever it was, it was affecting his health, and couldn't go on like this. She was still deciding what would be the best way to get him to open up, when a rattling, scraping noise came from behind her. Twisting around, she saw Kreacher walking past the door, with a bag dragging on the floor behind him. Odd.

"Hello, Kreacher. Where are you going with that?" She asked.

The elderly elf looked up at her, the neck of the bag going slack in his grip. "Kreacher was removing the bottles from young master Weasley's room, as he asked."

Hermione glanced sharply at Ron, noting how the little color he had draining from his lips, his eyes dilating. Dread began to gnaw at her stomach.

"What bottles, Kreacher? Firewhiskey?" She hoped not. She knew that George had gone on an alcoholic binge, but Ron had appeared to be too busy taking care of him to follow suit. If he had developed a drinking problem, it was serious; that was a very big bag...

"Not Firewhiskey. Dreamless Sleep. The young master needs it to sleep."

"That's enough!" Ron cut in harshly, feeling things beginning to crumble around him.

"No, go on, Kreacher. I think I need to hear this." Hermione demanded, her eyes fixed on the bag as if it was another Horcrux.

Kreacher looked back and forth at each of them, seeming caught between what must have felt like an order, and his own desire. "Kreacher doesn't want to cause any trouble. Young miss can ask for herself." He turned to go, then stopped. "Will young miss be wanting anything to eat?"

Hermione shook her head in frustration; food was the farthest thing from her mind right now-

"Very well. Kreacher must be losing his skill in the kitchen, since no one will eat his food anymore, save for Master Harry."

This grabbed her attention. "What do you mean? Are you saying Ron doesn't eat here anymore?"

Kreacher shook his head mournfully. "Even when the young master dines at home, he never has seconds. Sometimes he doesn't even finish what's on his plate. Kreacher's cooking must displease him."

"I'm sure you're cooking is perfectly fine," Hermione tried to assure him, her mind racing.

Kreacher looked up suddenly, a hard look in his eyes telling her that he knew exactly what he was doing. "If Kreacher is still doing his job well, then maybe there is another problem? Young master used to love to eat. Kreacher _knows._ Kreacher _remembers."_

"I like eating just fine!" Ron said loudly, his fingers digging into the back of the sofa. "I stuff myself when I'm out, and I'm too tired when I get home. Sorry if I hurt your feelings, and I'll try to do eat in more. Can we drop it now?"

He and Kreacher had a silent war, neither one wanting to back down, but each one hindered from speaking; Ron, because Hermione knew too much already, and Kreacher, from having years of obedience ingrained until he could no longer defy those he viewed as his masters.

Kreacher shrugged, sullenly, and Ron relaxed, thinking he had won. "Very well. Kreacher will be going back for the rest of the bottles."

Hermione shot to her feet. "Are you saying there are _more?"_

Without bothering to wait for an answer, she bolted from the room, ignoring Ron's shout of protest. She pounded up the stairs, her footsteps thundering in time with her heart. She heard Ron behind her, but it didn't slow her down. She made it to his room with him hot on his heels, throwing open his door before he could stop her. The first thing that hit her was the smell. It wasn't bad, but it was stale; like there hadn't been any proper air circulation in a long while. The messiness was about usual for Ron, with a few items of clothing scattered around the floor, and a glass on the bedside table.

But none of that compared to the vials of Dreamless Sleep.

Sprinkled on nearly every surface, they glinted at her accusingly, taunting her, telling her she should have _known._ She felt as sick as Ron looked, and she staggered over to the bed to sit down. How could this be happening? Why hadn't he written to tell her that he was doing this badly? Is this the reason he hadn't been able to visit? Did anyone else know? Questions flew through her mind like disoriented birds, unable to find a clear direction. Ron stood in the doorway, watching her morosely.

"How often?" She finally asked, even though she already knew the answer. _Too often._

"I...when I need it," he answered evasively.

"How often do you need it? Three nights a week? Every other night? _Every_ night?"

He flinched at the note of hysteria in her voice. "Sometimes one dose isn't enough," he admitted grudgingly, unable to keep up the effort it took to lie.

Her eyes filled with tears, and a strangled whimper rattled at the back of her throat. "Ohmygod. Oh my _god,_ Ron! We have to get you to St. Mungo's! Do you have any idea what kind of damage there could be? I'll need to owl your family-"

"NO!" He yelled, stepping forward as she made to stand up.

She sank back onto the mattress, unsure what to do. He obviously needed help, but he looked so upset right now that she couldn't clearly decide on the best course of action.

"I guess that means they don't know...Ron, why haven't you told them? Why haven't you told _me?"_

Ron dropped to the floor, resting his back against the mattress, next to her legs. "You? Hermione, you're the _last_ person I'd tell," he choked out in a laugh.

She tried not to let that sting; there were more important things right now than her own feelings. "I don't _understand._ What-"

"You want to know? Fine," he said in a dull voice. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that damned wall falling on Fred, and Harry in Hagrid's arms. I see you lying on the floor at Malfoy Manor, and Dobby lying in a hole I helped dig. I hear the list of the dead, name after name fading in and out of the static of the radio. I hear every filthy thing that locket whispered to me, and I hear your voice begging me not to leave..."

Hermione slid down the bed, burrowing into his side, her arms going around him to squeeze tightly. "I'm sorry, Ron. I never...you always seemed to be handling everything so well," she tried to explain, but it sounded weak in her ears. What kind of person was she, to have missed this until now? True, she had been away, but still...

Ron pulled her closer, surprised. He hadn't known what to expect. Yelling, maybe. He wasn't sure anymore what was fact, and what was a product of the paranoia that gripped him most of the time.

"That was the point, wasn't it? I _had_ to handle it. Everyone in my family was fucked up over Fred; Harry had that case of survivor's guilt he always gets, and didn't need me adding to it. You, well; you were still...you know. And the whole mess with your parents. And I had to make it up to all of you, for running out, in one way or another. This was the only thing I could do, see? All I could do was try to help where I could, and it's still not enough, not really." He gave a harsh laugh. "And now I've gone and ruined it. Fucked things up with us before it really got started. Can't blame you for leaving, now that you see what a weak, useless sod I really am."

Hermione had only thought she had felt sick before. It was nothing to how she felt now, listening to the self-loathing in his voice. It was so very, _very_ Ron. Ever since they were eleven, he was always the one rushing to sacrifice himself for the good of those around him. It shouldn't surprise her that he was doing the same thing now, even though it was breaking him. He was a flame that was trying to bring warmth to too many people, and he was just about burned out. With everyone trying to deal with their own pain, it had probably been easy to slip his past; to fake a smile, and do whatever needed to be done. George had seemed to be the one in danger, the one loudest in his despair. They had all, herself included, been leaning on him, and had nearly crushed him under the weight. Now, it was Ron's turn to lean, and while he would need support from everyone, it would start with her.

"That is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say," she said gently. "Do you think that after all we've been through, That I would leave you because you need the same kind of help as the rest of us? That I would somehow think less of you?"

He didn't know. The darkness screamed yes, that that was what she _had_ to think, that it was what he deserved. The tattered shreds of reason he had been clinging to absorbed her words, and he found himself staring at her like a man that had been lost in the desert would upon coming across a pool of fresh water.

Hermione sat up a little, putting her hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye seriously. "That isn't how this works, you know. We've come too far for that. I'm not sure exactly what to do right now, but...Ron, whatever we do, we do it _together."_

She watched as his mouth worked silently, the way he tried to fight back the tears that were standing in his eyes. She wasn't having that; he had been fighting too long. Carefully, but firmly, she pulled him down to her, drawing him into her embrace, resting her head on top of his. She felt his body tense, the muscles jumping and twitching under her hands. Then, with a sob against her skin, he relaxed, and she felt the tears fall as he shook. She knew that this didn't fix anything, not really. Ron was going to need medical help, and he was going to have to open up to his family and Harry, so they could give him the support he had been denying himself. And while they would be shaken and hurt, she knew that they would be there for Ron, as he had been for them. She also knew that Ron would get through this; it would take time, but she believed in him. Step by step, he would heal, and he would be able to stand on his own once again.

For now, she would gladly take the weight.

**A.N. This was a very important piece for me to write. The subject matter is very near to my heart, and I didn't want to portray it casually. Depression, PTSD, and any other mental illness will not be solved just because someone loves you; they can help and support you, but not save you. I hope I made it very clear that Ron is not healed by her show of love, and that he still has a long journey ahead. It's something he has to do himself, but it's easier when you have others beside you to lend a hand. I have a multi-chapter fic coming up that deals with this more thoroughly, and isn't connected to this piece. Still, I wanted to give a small taste in this of what can be expected in the future.**

**Also, before Harry and the Weasleys are judged too harshly; when a group of people goes through something as devastating as a war and the loss of a family member, it can be very difficult to judge how severely another in the group is affected if they are purposely hiding it.**


	2. Spicy Ginger (M)

**Prompt by the amazing diva-gonzo : Hermione gets Ron to try a new food, either by bribe or by bet.**

The last things Ron Weasley wanted in his life were adventure and excitement. He had had seven years of that, thank you very much, and now that the war was behind him, he was finding he quite liked boring and predictable. There was comfort in daily patterns and routines, knowing what nights you were eating at the Burrow, when you were helping George with the shop, and which night was date night. He knew Hermione's hours and what time she would be home, and how many times a week he could get away with messing around with Harry out on the pitch. He revelled in the fact that he could go to bed at night knowing that they weren't being hunted, even if he did still sleep with his wand by his head. Things were quiet. They were peaceful.

Which was why, when Hermione announced that they were going to do something spontaneous and unusual, he was less than pleased.

He was also pretty damned confused. He had thought that Hermione, of all people, would be the one to live by schedules. But no, suddenly she wanted to do something different; she said they were getting too comfortable. How the hell can you get too comfortable? Then he worried that she was getting bored with him, and it took her awhile to reassure him that that was far from the case; she wanted to do new things, but she wanted to share them with _him._ Somewhat mollified, he decided to at least hear her out. And at first, it didn't sound too bad; she just wanted to eat somewhere new. Well, he was always up for food, so that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Then she said she wanted him to go to a _Muggle_ restaurant, and that dimmed his enthusiasm. What did Muggles have to offer that they couldn't get right here? Hermione had only rolled her eyes, and asked him if he trusted her. What was he supposed to say to that? Of course he did.

"I never should've trusted you," he grumbled, standing in front of the small Thai restaurant that they had Apparated behind moments earlier.

"I knew I'd never get you here if I told you where we were going. Honestly, it'll do you good to get away from the same old fish and chips that you usually get when we go out."

"There's nothing wrong with traditional English food, Hermione. At least you know what you're getting, and the dishes don't sound like a sneeze. Or look like one, in some cases," he grumbled, making sure his wand was secure in the waistband of his nice jeans, covered by his dark blue jacket.

"Ron, It's one meal. You flew a car to Hogwarts. You belched slugs. You slept with a man for years without realizing it. I think you can handle a bit of strange food."

"Reminding me of the taste of slugs isn't really doing much for my appetite, love. Are you sure we can't just go to the Leaky?"

Her features sharpened with irritation, and he shuffled a few steps to the side when he could practically see her hair bristling.

"Because we almost always go to the Leaky, or any of the other four restaurants close by. We do the same things, on the same days, at the same times. Normally, that's fine; I was always the one that enjoyed things nice and orderly." Her face softened a bit, and she rested her hand on his arm, looking up at him with a hint of concern. "But that's never really been _you._ You and Harry were always the ones taking chances, but ever since...well. I just feel like it's time for you to start trying new things again. All I'm asking is for one meal, to start. Please?"

She was right, he knew, but it was the 'please' that got to him. Hermione could still nag like a champ, but he had noticed, since they had gotten together, that she made more of an effort to be less harsh, and to ask instead of demand. And maybe it was time for him to start living a little; he wasn't even twenty, and he was already in danger of falling into a middle aged rut.

"Alright, but if it tastes anything like the slugs, I'm never going to speak to you again as long as I live, for a week."

Hermione beamed at him, taking his hand and starting for the door. "I'm sure we can find something you'll like! I came one night with Ginny and Luna, and everything we had was wonderful."

He gave a noncommittal 'hm', not commenting on the strange habit girls seemed to have with sharing their food. If it was on his plate, it was his; if it was on someone else's plate, it might also end up as his. Hermione was the only exception to this rule, and even she knew there were limits to what she could sneak off his plate.

Inside, he had to squint to adjust to the dim light. A middle aged woman greeted them with a smile, and then led them to a table in the back, at Hermione's request. She left them to look over their menus, saying she would be back shortly with the wine. He picked up the menu that was in front of him, and began to scan it, his apprehension growing.

The letters were familiar. He was good with the letters. It was the way they were put together that he was having trouble with. Half of it looked like it could use a few extra vowels between some of the consonants. How the hell was he supposed to pronounce this stuff? He couldn't make much out of the descriptions either, only picking out a few familiar words.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked, noticing his look of distress.

"If I try to order this, I'll sound like a duck with a head cold. But that might not be a problem, since I can't even tell what most of this stuff is supposed to be."

She took the menu from him, stacking it neatly on top of hers. "I'll just go ahead and order for you, then. I saw something I think you'll like."

He was distracted from answering by a loud, mule-like laugh from behind him. He jumped in surprise, then settled back into his seat when he saw that it was a man two tables away, who looked as if he had about one glasses of wine too many. Hermione had flipped his menu open while he had looked away, and he smiled in amusement, watching the way her lips twitched ever so slightly while she read. He knew what she was doing; Hermione had the habit of choosing what to eat quickly, changing her mind a few minutes later. The funny thing was, she always went back to her original choice in the end.

His attention drifted downward, appreciating, not for the first time, how fit she looked in the snug purple jumper. It had a v-neck, and the way she was bent leaning forward showed off a small amount of cleavage in the flickering light from the candle that was sitting in the center of the table.

"The attention is flattering, but that's not on the menu, at the moment."

Her teasing voice had him jerking his eyes back up to meet hers, his ears burning hot with embarrassment. He grinned sheepishly; he could be a randy git, but she hardly ever seemed to mind. He tried to think of something slick and witty to say, but found himself unusually tongue-tied. Although they had been together over a year now, and were quite comfortable having been friends for so long before, he still found himself having moments of being struck by his feelings for her.

The waitress bustled over and poured the wine into their waiting glasses, saving him from stuttering out a garbled reply. Hermione ordered for both of them, and listening to her made him incredibly glad he hadn't tried to pronounce anything. Once they were alone, they began to fill the time with small talk, swapping stories about what had happened at work and training that day. Ron was on rotation to shadow a senior Auror, so he was finally getting to see a little practical experience. Hermione wasn't doing as well; That bastard, Jenkins, was still shoving all the work on her and taking credit, and Hermione had had just about enough. While they were discussing the possible merits of letting the bloody wanker fall flat on his face if Hermione only did her share of the work, their food arrived.

Bright, red and yellow plates held piles of steaming...stuff. Ron picked up his fork and gave it a poke. It looked like rice. Sort of. And was that...yes! Shrimp! He loved shrimp; even more than chicken, actually, but his family rarely ever had it. But even the shrimp was funny looking, covered in a red, shiny type of sauce. He put his fork down. It smelled alright, but he was still reluctant to go through with it. Hermione caught the conflicted expression he wore, abandoning her own meal to address the issue.

"Is there something wrong? I thought you liked shrimp."

He stared at the shellfish in question. "I do. Fried. Without any batter, it just looks so... _naked._ Sort of indecent, really."

"Well, if you're nervous, how about if I add some incentive? If you put something in your mouth," Ron nearly choked as he felt her foot slide up his leg and into his lap undercover of the tablecloth, "I'll put something in mine."

Sweet Merlin! _That_ was a hippogriff of another color!

With considerably more enthusiasm, he loaded his fork, and, before he could reconsider, thrust it into his mouth. Instantly, he was awash in taste sensations the likes of which he had never known. It was spicier than anything he had ever eaten (aside from a few sweets, and the odd gag slipped in by Fred and George), and it stopped just short of being unbearable. The shrimp was plump and juicy, offset by the texture of the rice. This...this was _good!_ Had he really complained that he would rather have fish and chips?

"You know, you had that exact same expression the first time we ever went to Honeydukes," Hermione observed, eating her own food at a more sedate pace.

"Honeydukes was brilliant; even you got excited about it. But this is fantastic! Why haven't we ever eaten here before?"

She laughed into her napkin as he eagerly took another bite. "You make it sound as if I'd been hiding it from you! See, this was why I wanted us to start doing new things. Who knows what else you're missing out on?"

"Hermione, if everything else you want to try tastes this good, then I'm game for anything you throw at me."

Her eyes sparkled. That's good, because I have a list."

He nearly choked on his shrimp laughing. "Of course you do!"

As they enjoyed their meal, Ron wondered how to bring up the delicate question of whether she was still planning on holding up her end of the deal, or if that was cancelled out by him liking the food...

Forty-three minutes later, as he crashed into the living room wall of their flat with her pressed against him, he realized she did. The conversation had gotten... _flirtier_ as dinner progressed, and they had barely made it out of the restaurant and into the alley before engaging in a heated snog. They only came to their senses long enough to Apparate when his hands had ventured up her jumper; Now, one was shoved under the soft purple fabric squeezing her breast, while the other was tangled in her hair.

She moaned, biting down on his lower lip, her hands tugging his jacket off his shoulders. He moved his hands away just long enough for her to finish peeling it all the way off. Deciding that it was only fair that he get to remove something of hers, he made quick work of the jumper, leaving her standing in her black skirt and lace edged black bra. He loved that bra, he really did; it was excellent on her tits and even better on the floor, and he prayed she was wearing the matching knickers. The feel of her fingertips scratching through the hair at the base of his neck had his hands sliding down to grip her arse, pulling her closer to grind against her.

She whined at the back of her throat before pulling away, her eyes dark and her lips swollen from their kisses. The wicked smile she gave him made his mouth go dry as she sank to her knees, clever fingers making quick work of his belt buckle and the zip of his trousers. They were yanked down along with his pants, bunching forgotten at his ankles. He held his breath when she ran her hands up and down his thighs, moving closer to his inner thighs with each pass. She leaned forward to press her lips to his hipbone before trailing kisses downward, her right hand circling the base of his cock and giving it a smooth stroke. The air left his lungs in a gasp, his teeth clenching to keep from thrusting into her hand. Her lips came to the underside of his shaft, her tongue darting for a quick lick. With soft, languid movements, she traced his length, following the path of a vein until she reached the head.

Eyes sparkling with mischief, she took the tip of him into her mouth, the contrast between the warm wetness and the previous coldness of the room causing him to grunt. With a sudden move, she took him nearly to the base, and his head slammed back against the wall, his fingers tightening convulsively in her hair. Slowly, she began to bob her head, picking up the pace as his breathing became louder and more ragged. He couldn't help the small, sporadic thrusts of his hips, but she showed no signs of discomfort, instead lifting her other hand to trace his balls with her nails. The combination of the firm suction and the gentle caress was enough to speed him to his release, his eyes clenched shut as he yelled her name.

The world stopped for several moments, and when it started again, she was leaning back, having already cleaned up the mess. He helped her to her feet, nuzzling his face into her neck.

"That was brilliant. You are brilliant. Every idea you have is brilliant, and I will never argue with you again," he muttered happily.

Hermione snorted. "Of course not; at least, not until the next time you do."

"That goes without saying," he cheeked back, steering her over to the sofa; after all, there were certain things that you had to finish once you started.

Ron Weasley loved adventure and excitement. He had no need for patterns, no desire for schedules. There were new foods out there waiting to be eaten, and with Hermione by his side, he would venture forth to find them. And he wondered, as he tugged off her skirt, if he could talk her into being spontaneous and daring behind the stands at the next Harpies game.

Convincing her would be an adventure in itself, but, after all, it _had_ been her idea...and Ron never backed down from a challenge. Not anymore.


	3. Build-A-Spouse (K)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione take Rose and Hugo to Build-A-Bear, and end up creating stuffed versions of each other.**

"Remind me what we're doing here again?" Ron asked his wife forlornly, as dozens of children whizzed around him, giggling and shrieking. He saw his own children join the mix, and he gave the store a quick scan, happy to see that the only adults in the area were parents with children, or workers.

"This was what Rose wanted for her birthday, and _you_ were the one that promised her she could do whatever she wanted," Hermione reminded him, watching out of the corner of her eye as her daughter bounced about excitedly.

Ron brushed his fringe out of his eyes, not entirely comfortable with keeping his wand hidden in the sleeve of his jacket. "Yeah, but I thought she would pick something a little less... _less._ Like a puppy. I could've handled a puppy. But this...this is Blast-Ended Skrewts all over again!"

A small child ran by, its hands covered in something decidedly sticky, and Hermione stepped aside before it could brush against her. "Oh, it's not that bad. At least Mum and Dad came to help. You just don't like getting out in the Muggle world that much. Try to endure it, and I'll make sure lunch is worth your while."

He tried to answer, but a large gaggle passed between them, and he got swept to the side. When he looked up, Hermione was on the other side of the store. Rose and Hugo were talking excitedly to their grandparents, and he looked around, trying to figure out what had caused his daughter to be enraptured with the place. He couldn't understand the appeal; hundreds of limp, lifeless stuffed animals stared at him from the walls, looking as if their insides had been sucked right out of them before their hollow cadavers were hung like meat trophies.

Cheery.

He wandered over to one wall, a plain brown bear catching his eyes. It wasn't brightly colored, and it didn't have too many features that made it stand out. The only things about it that made it different than any of the others were its oddly curly hair, and large, brown eyes. Instead of smiling, it seemed almost judgmental; he smirked, picking it up. Maybe if he just...

Finding a stuffing machine, he watched how it was done, before quickly getting to work.

On the other side of the store, Hermione was busy herself. The kids were enjoying their time with her parents, and she was content to let them. She had expected to be bored, since these types of toys had never much interested her, even as a child; yet here she was, somehow being charmed by a bright orange bear with sparkling blue eyes. His little nose had a slight scuff, almost giving it the appearance of dirt. Giggling, she picked it up. Wouldn't it be funny if she just...

Ron had succumbed to the creative process, ignoring the odd looks as he held up several little outfits, scrutinizing them intensely. He was looking for just the right combination. He finally decided to improvise; Finding the skirt and a jumper wasn't to difficult, but he had to do a bit of searching to find a red tie, and something that resembled a robe, which was intended for a 'judge.' He was surprised to find wands, even though it had a ridiculous star attached to the end. Oh well, he could yank it off later. Now he just had to sneak up and pay for it, without Hermione seeing him...

Hermione lined up the clothes she had picked out, along with an accessory that had made her chuckle. She poked the legs into the tiny trousers, followed by a little white dress shirt and a gray jumper. She added the red tie, but it looked wrong somehow. Ah. That was it. She untucked the dress shirt, and wrinkled the collar a bit, loosening the tie to give the bear a slightly sloppy look. Perfect. Or almost perfect. She placed the little, stuffed felt drumstick in its hand. There. _Now_ it was perfect. She checked the store. The kids were showing off their own creations, and her parents were keeping them distracted. Over by the entrance, she could catch a glimpse of Ron's hair, so she darted over to the cash register, and quickly counted out the total once she was rung up. She couldn't wait to see the look on his face...

He gave a jump as someone took his arm, but relaxed when he looked down to find Hermione. He grinned, then noticed she had a bag. "What's that? I didn't figure the kids would part with the toys long enough for you to put them in a bag."

Hermione looked pointedly at the bag he was doing a poor job of concealing between himself and the wall. "Oh, this is a little something I got for myself. Want to see?"

Ginger eyebrow quirked in curious amusement, he answered, "Sure, let's see it. I'm surprised, though; you're not exactly the cuddly toy type."

Rooting in the bag, Hermione laughed. "Not true; it just has to be the _right_ cuddly toy."

Pulling out her new friend, she presented it proudly. "What do you think?"

Ron stared at the bear she was holding. It was a rather gangly bear, with bright orange fur, and was that something on it's nose? It was in an outfit that looked somewhat like the one he had worn to Hogwarts, though he had to admit that the bear's fit better than his ever had. He was pleased that she had kept the bear comfortably disheveled; that had been his preferred style. She had added something though, and he couldn't help bursting into laughter when he saw what it was.

"You're never going to let go of the fact that I always made a pig of myself in the Great Hall, are you? And I admit, the bear has a certain charm, but what do you plan on doing with him?"

Stroking the plush fur, she stuck her tongue out at him. "He's perfect! And he'll do nicely to keep me company when you're away on missions. Now, spill; you're not hiding that bag from anyone."

Shrugging good naturedly, he brought out his own surprise, and his heart warmed as Hermione's eyes widened in delight.

"Oh, Ron! You found one with my terrible hair! And...is that a wand and a book?"

He traded bears with her, so she could examine it more closely. "Yeah. I thought about getting a dozen or so books, but they ask a fair bit for a few pieces of felt. Go on, give her a squeeze."

She had almost forgotten about that part. Following his suggestion, she squeezed its middle, and Ron's voice came out, pitched high in imitation. "Did you know you have dirt on your nose? It's Levi-OH-sa, and you need to flick and swish!"

Nearly choking on her giggles at what a little swot she had been, she motioned for him to squeeze the other bear.

"Bloody hell! Hermione, can I borrow your notes? Anyone feel like losing a game of chess?"

"I didn't always ask to borrow your notes!" He claimed, `not really as affronted as he pretended.

"True. Sometimes you just tried to peek at them. And anyway, what do you plan on doing with your bear? Are you taking it along on missions?"

He released a snort at the metal picture. "The lads'd love that, wouldn't they? Nah. Although Harry mentioned this wicked sounding Muggle doll that you can-"

"Ron!"

"Well, If I'm going to take something to remember you on missions, I might as well do it right!"

Mummy! Look what we made!" Rose broke in, running up with Hugo on her heels, followed by her parents. She felt Ron move a few feet away as she admired her children's work, praising each one.

"Alright, we should start thinking about lunch. Ron? What are you doing over there?" She questioned, observing her husband straighten from a guilty looking hunched position.

He came over to join them, handing her the teddy version of himself, and leaning to whisper in her ear. "Just thought that if he's supposed to keep you company when you get lonely, he should say something more appropriate."

She let them walk ahead of her, her cheeks flushing at his wink. Obviously, he had just been charming the bear to say something lewd; part of her despaired of the fact that he could still be such a boy, while the other part of her never wanted him to change. Making sure she wouldn't be overheard, she squeezed the bear, keeping an eye out for children wandering too close.

"It was your voice, Hermione. You said my name; just mine."

She nearly dropped the bear; she had been expecting to laugh, but instead her eyes misted over. Somehow, she knew without him having to tell her, why he chose those words. She had only been partially teasing when she said that the bear would keep her company while he was on missions, and this was his way of letting her know that he would always find a way back to her.

Hearing laughter, she looked up, finding that Ron was holding Hugo in one arm, while Rose swung from the other. She stood a moment, watching her husband interact with the children he so clearly adored, the family that they had lovingly built together, through good times and bad.

"Your name. Just _your_ name."


	4. The Most Dangerous Mission (K)

**Prompt: Ron quits his job at the Aurors to be a stay at home dad. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RUPERT!)**

Dementors. Death Eaters. Hacked off Hermiones. Ron Weasley had faced all of these, along with assorted evil witches, wizards, and common crooks. He had medals and citations, glowing newspaper articles, and the trust of the Minister of Magic himself. He had spent most of his childhood fighting with his best friends against one of the darkest wizards in history, and in the years after that, had gone on countless team and solo missions as an Auror. So the fact that Hermione was acting like the end of the world was upon them just because he had taken long term leave for his turn as stay at home parent somewhat rankled him.

Color coded lists and charts covered nearly an entire wall in the kitchen; moving illustrations of various emergency medical techniques were stuck to the fridge, and a homemade manual that made Hogwarts: A History look like a leaflet was on the counter. And just to be safe, there was an extra copy in the living room, and one in the bedroom, as well.

"Are you sure I shouldn't stay home for a few days and walk you through it?" Hermione asked for the sixth time that morning, wringing her hands as she lingered by the fireplace.

" _I'm sure._ I was sure three months ago when we decided that I needed to be the one to do this, since you did after each of them was born. Mum loves having them, but she's not as young as she was, and she deserves a break. I was sure when you woke me up at three this morning to ask me and quiz me on their allergies, and I'm sure this morning."

"I know, I know; It's just that they can be such handfuls at this age, and it might be too much-"

"Hermione. These are my children. The fruit of my loins. The fruit of _your_ loins, which I know almost as well as mine. I've been a dad for nearly seven years, and it isn't like this is the first time I've been alone with them. You've left enough instructions that I could raise an army of children, and if all else fails, I still have my Care of Magical Creatures book somewhere."

"You might mean that as a joke, but it might actually come in handy. Now, you can get ahold of my parents if you have any problems, and they'll come right over. Ginny said she'll check on you around two, and I should be home in time for dinner...what am I forgetting?"

Ron shoved her gently to the fireplace, and held out the small jar of Floo powder. "The fact that I'm a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of my own children. Now, get to work; there has to be some law or other that needs you to write, rewrite, or break it."

Ron sighed as she disappeared. He knew she'd be fretting all day, and her lack of faith in him irked him. He decided to retaliate, but first he had to make sure his loveable offspring weren't doing anything too objectionable, such as putting Hermione's makeup on Crookshanks. Although privately, he had been highly amused when they had doused the poor beast in Sleakeasy. He turned to go check their rooms, only to find them both standing in the doorway with expressions of the utmost angelic innocence. Years of experience as both a father and an Auror told him that something was up.

"Alright, you two, let's have it. Your mum may think I'm a chump, but you can't pull anything over on dear old Dad."

Rose and Hugo exchanged a look, and then faced him once again with large, matching grins. He began to sweat when he realized that at this moment, they bore an uncanny resemblance to Fred and George.

This did not bode well. At all.

Hermione checked her message tray again, not wanting to miss a letter from Ron. So what if she had only been across the room at her filing cabinet? She wasn't taking any chances. Her children were wonderful, and she loved them more than anything but Ron, but she also knew that they could be devious little fiends when they thought they could get away with it. And Ron had always been the softer parent. Which was good, because she had a tendency to worry too much, and become more strict and unyielding than was necessary. Ron always disciplined them when he needed to, but he somehow managed to come out of it as the good guy, a trick she had never learned.

It was just that he didn't have as much day-to-day experience with them as either herself or Molly. He always made time in the evenings and on weekends, but it still wasn't quite the same. Rose was a picky eater, and Hugo fought against naps with all the strength in his tiny body. Rose questioned _everything_ (Hermione saw herself mirrored there; hard not to when her mother gleefully pointed it out so often), and Hugo was impossible when he had an earache. She glanced at the clock, and saw that she had only been at work for an hour. How was she going to make it through the entire day?

An owl winged its way into her office, and she recognized Pig. She snatched him out of the air, taking the letter as quickly as she could.

_Hermione, what was that spell for getting sticky stains out of the carpet again? I think it went, something, something, tiddly-something, but I can't quite recall it._

Well, that wasn't too bad. She scribbled a reply, and sent Pig back home. Settling back at her desk, she began to think that Ron had things well in hand, if the worst thing that had happened was a spill. She worked contentedly for two hours, before Pig made his second appearance.

The small owl hopped onto the stand on her desk, and she took this letter, wondering what had happened now.

_Hermione? I thought we had an extra packet of biscuits? I sent Rose to check, but she says they're all gone. Also, are you sure you put the ham on the right temperature? I can't tell if it's cooking or not._

A short letter explaining the error of sending an unsupervised child after biscuits and assuring him that yes, after all these years, she was fairly sure how to cook a ham, was sent on its way, and she got ready to break for lunch. A quick sandwich at the canteen, and some smalltalk in the outer office, and she was back. So was Pig.

_Hermione, does Rose have to play with that kid Ethan, from down the road? She says he smells funny. She's right._

Gritting her teeth, she wrote back saying that no, Rose could send Ethan home. (really, it was probably better for him to start out with their children before adding any more to the mix.)

Two hours passed in silence, and she stopped looking for Pig every few minutes and became immersed in her work. A flutter of wings told her that the peace had been too good to be true.

"Pig, we _have_ to stop meeting like this."

_Hermione, did you know that Hugo has started picking his nose and wiping his bogies on the underside of the sofa? On a happier note, I've found enough spare change to be able to take you out this weekend._

Instructions for introducing Hugo to the proper uses of tissue paper and an acceptance to dinner was written out, torn between frustration and amusement. Checking the clock, she saw that it was time for her meeting, which was probably going to eat up the rest of her day. Notes were shoved hastily into her dragonskin briefcase, and she briskly walked down to the lift which would take her to the meeting room. She was pleased to see that she was the second one there, and she had time to give her notes a final once over in preparation. Everyone had finally arrived, and the meeting was being called to order, when the last creature she wanted to see fluttered through the door. Smiling apologetically, she took the latest letter.

_Hermione, where do we keep the sticking plasters? Don't worry, the bleeding has finally stopped, so everything is alright. I even got all the stains out! At least, all the ones I could find..._

What? Blood? _Whose blood?_ And how could he possibly sound so calm, when he implied that she might expect to come home to find undiscovered puddles of the stuff? Frantically, she wrote directions to the plasters in question, along with a strongly worded demand for an explanation of what was going on. If she didn't receive a reply quickly, she was Apparating home, meeting or no.

She barely paid attention to the proceedings, speaking by rote. Her concern mounted minute by minute, until Pig finally arrived. Ignoring the irritation of those around the table, she tore into the envelope.

_Hermione; found the plasters. Not many in a box, are there? We might ought to stock up. Also, Rose told me you said it was fine to put those purple streaks in her hair. They turned out alright, I guess, but what I was wondering is, is that stuff poisonous to cats? At any rate, Crookshanks is going to be looking right queer for the next week or so until all this washes out._

Hermione was seething, her worry forgotten. Rose had gotten that temporary dye in a gift bag at a friend's birthday party, and Hermione had told her that she was too young to use it on herself. That little miss was in for a surprise when she got home! And poor, poor Crookshanks!

Yet another reply was written, with the admonition that Pig wasn't as young as he was, and if Ron didn't stop, he would begin to look like Erol.

"Problems, Mrs. Weasley?" A dry voice broke into her thoughts, coming from Helena Thropwood, head of her department.

"No, Ma'am. It's just my husband has stopped working to stay home with our children, and as it's his first day, he's having a few...difficulties," she replied meekly, highly embarrassed. She knew that on Helena's retirement this year, she was being considered for the job.

Miss. Thropwood's face softened, and there were sympathetic mutters around the table. "Do you need to go home early? I'm sure we could manage."

She shook her head decisively. "I'm sure he's doing fine. It's nothing that can't wait until I get home." She hoped.

"Hmmm...Well, If you're sure. Alright, where were we?"

With her attention firmly on the meeting, Hermione didn't notice the passage of time, until, like a bad Knut, Pig returned once again, falling limply to the table. Oh, for the love of...

_Hermione; curtains are highly flammable. Someone should do something about that. Also, quick question; Do cats go to heaven? The only information I can find concerns dogs, and the answer is a bit, uh, vital, you might say._

Everyone at the table jumped at the sound of her horrified screech, and she must look a sight with all of the blood draining from her face. Her boss eyed her with concern, mixed with more than a small amount of pity.

"Hermione, go home. We've gone fifteen minutes overtime already, and it looks like they need you there."

Distractedly, she began shoving her papers in her briefcase. "I am so, so sorry! This will never happen again, I promise!" Mainly because she was going to kill Ron, if he hadn't managed it himself by the time she got home.

"Nonsense. Family comes first, at least while I'm in charge. And Hermione?"

Hermione looked back, her hand on the door. "Yes?"

"My niece runs an excellent daycare. You might want to give that a thought."

Her answer a stiff, polite smile before she sped into the hall, her briefcase in one hand, and the wilted owl in the other. She made it to the Floo stations in record time, throwing herself in and calling her address out loudly. She held Pig close as she was whipped through the network, stopping with a sudden jerk at her own fireplace. She burst into the room, dropped her briefcase and yanked out her wand, ready to face the chaos that was...

...not there. Blinking in confusion, she tried to make sense of the sight that greeted her. Rose was on the ottoman, reading one of her favorite books. Hugo was on the floor, talking to himself as he played with his brightly colored building blocks. On the sofa sat Ron, flipping through the Daily Prophet, while Crookshanks purred contentedly in his lap. The scene of utter domestic harmony clashed horribly with the images that had been conjured by her imagination, and she stood there, gaping, as she tried to wrap her mind about it.

Ron folded his paper, smiling brightly. "Hello, love! You're home a little early; I was just getting ready to start the green beans and mashed potatoes."

Her eyes darted wildly around the room, trying to find any sign of the havoc that had been described in the letters. But Crookshanks was alive and well, the curtains weren't so much as singed, and her daughter's hair was the same color it had been this morning.

"But...you said...all those letters!"

Her husband smirked, that smarmy Weasley smirk that they all wore when they had managed to pull one over on you.

"Enjoyed those, did you? Had you convinced that Ronniekins couldn't keep it together without help, eh? Sorry, Hermione, but I wanted you to see that I might not be as dedicated to timetables and charts as you are, but I can manage to get through the day without burning the house down or losing our kids."

That smug, superior _bas-_

"Ron, you insufferable _prat!_ I just left an important meeting, because I thought something horrible had happened!" She screeched, waving her hands about, oblivious to Ron ducking and dodging out of the line of fire from her wand, while Pig used his remaining energy to land escape her grasp and make it to the mantle.

"Meeting? What meeting? The calendar says your meeting isn't until tomorrow!" He said, surprise evident in his tone.

She stomped into the kitchen to point it out, with her husband trailing behind. Ignoring the fact that all of her careful notes and instructions had been taken down, she jabbed a finger at the calendar.

"There! See? It says perfectly clearly that my meeting is...tomorrow? Oh bother..." She deflated, forced to admit that she had written in the wrong square; on the calendar, it looked as if her meeting wasn't for another day.

Ron scratched his head, looking sheepish as they rejoined Rose and Hugo in the living room. "Sorry, Hermione. I never would've done that if I thought that it was today," he told her contritely.

Staring into his big, blue eyes that he was currently using to give her the sad puppy look, she found she couldn't be mad. After all, everyone was in one piece, the house was still standing, and she now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ron could handle things just fine on his own.

"It...it's fine. So nothing bad happened today? Nothing at all?"

Ron nodded at the kids, who were watching their parents with interest. "Tell your mum what we did today."

"This morning, we brushed Crookshanks, and Hugo and I played while Daddy wrote some letters. Then we had lunch, and I ate all of it, even though it was icky turkey!" Rose reeled off proudly.

Ron patted Hugo on the shoulder. "And what did we do after lunch?"

Hugo scowled. "We took a nap. But Daddy let me put on his Quidditch helmet when I woke up!"

"And then we went for a loooooong walk, and we had a snack when we got back!" Rose piped up, deciding her brother had spoken long enough.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron. "Apple slices and some cheese," he assured her.

"And then we played some more, while Daddy wrote even _more_ letters, and then you came home!"

She looked from her children to her husband, unable to find fault in their activities. Ron was safe. For now.

"So you two had a good day?"

Rose and Hugo glanced at each other, before running over to hug Ron, who had sat back down on the sofa.

"Yeah! We love having Daddy home, don't we Hugo?"

"Uh-huh!"

Defeated, Hermione sighed. "Alright, I'll go change, and then you can help me with dinner. Don't forget to wash your hands first."

Ron watched her leave the room, his heart swelling with triumph and pride. He could be domestic, damn it! And it was about time she bloody well admitted it!

Rose leaned in close to him, so they couldn't be overheard. "You owe us five Sickles, Daddy," she sang happily.

Hugo grinned from his other side, chortling. "Each!"

Ron's shoulders slumped. The letters had all been a joke, but the price of perfect behavior had been high, and the discovery that he was raising a pair of extortionists had been a correspondingly low blow.

"Don't think you can get away with this tomorrow, you hear? You'll get your Sickles today, but this is it!" He said, keeping his voice low enough so Hermione wouldn't catch him.

They only giggled and ran from the room, and he flopped backwards, his hands reaching up to rub his temples. Tomorrow, they were going to pay a short, but very important visit to the Burrow. Because he had a sudden, inescapable need to apologize to his mum for at least the first ten to fifteen years of his childhood.

He only hoped she didn't rupture something laughing.


	5. Laid to Rest (T)

**Prompt: "I'm not afraid of you, not anymore."**

**While helping Hermione move in with him a year after the war, Ron runs across a familiar beaded bag. And the contents are as familiar as the inside of his head...**

Leaning against the doorframe of the library, Ron watched, in a mix of domestic satisfaction and randiness, as Hermione adjusted her books along one of the shelves, having to stretch so that a strip of lower back was exposed between shirt and jeans. The idea for her to move into Grimmauld Place with Harry and him was brilliant; his life was the better for it already, and it hadn't been a full day yet. Of course, she could really fit all of this into the room that had been designated at 'hers,' since she would be spending most of her time in _his,_ but he thought it best to keep that thought to himself. If she wanted her own space, that was fine; it would just make it all the sweeter when she chose to be in _his,_ instead. His eyes traced over her jeans, happily noting that while she was still quite thin, she wasn't as gaunt and unhealthy as she had been last year. Later, of course, he would have to do a more thorough inspection...

"If you're quite finished ogling my backside, you could make yourself useful," Hermione said wryly, not bothering to turn around.

Ron snapped his eyes up, his ears burning. "How'd you know?" He asked sheepishly.

"My back pockets were beginning to feel scorched. This is why I need my own room; I'm obviously too much temptation for you, and I would be in constant danger of being ravished."

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He loved this. Since they had gotten together, something between them had finally... _relaxed._ It was amazing how much easier things could be when you weren't dancing around, trying to figure out someone's feelings without exposing your own. They still bickered, but there wasn't that underlying, uncertain longing eating at them that always made things escalate more than they needed to. He loved the fact that now, after all of the shite from last year, they could finally be open with each other and flirt, they way they had missed out on while they were at school.

"You got me, but I'm honest enough to admit it. And polite enough to offer to help you now, so you'll have energy for the ravishing later. What do you need?"

Hermione turned and picked up a few more books from the large, ornately carved desk. "I haven't had a chance to unpack everything, and there are still some books up in my room. Would you mind getting started on bringing them down? It's hard to sort them when I have volumes missing."

"Not sure how much good I'll be at ravishing you with a broken back, but I'll do it. If you hear a loud crash, that's my poor body collapsing under the weight of your personal library as I try to make it down the stairs."

She hefted the books on her hip that she had thrust out to take their weight, and blew a strand of hair from her face out of the corner of her mouth. "Think of it as training; by the time you join the Academy, you'll already have bulging biceps."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Knew you loved me for my 'bulges.'"

"Ron! Harry could walk in at any minute!" She squeaked, flushing.

"Alright, I'm going! But seriously, after lugging all of those down, I'm going to need to eat."

He pushed away from the door, nearly slipping on the polished wood floor in his wool socks. Deciding that he didn't fancy crashing down the stairs in reality, he pulled them off, stuffing them in his back pocket as he made his way to the second floor, and down the hall to the room across from his. Pushing the door open, he blinked at the mess. Hermione was usually annoyingly tidy, but right now, it looked like all of her possessions had been dumped in the middle of the room, with random things strewn around the edges. With the grace of a drunken stork, he began to pick his way through the piles, trying to be careful where he put his oversized feet. He nudged at clothing with his toes, reaching down every once and awhile to pull out a book.

Trying to step over a box, he misjudged the distance, and began to wobble in place. He brought his foot back to regain balance, and felt something squashy and pebbled beneath his heel. Checking to make sure he hadn't destroyed anything important, he was disconcerted to see the small beaded bag that the three of them had lived out of for nearly a year. He gave a shudder, and nearly turned away, but then he remembered; Hermione had never given him back all of his clothes. In fact, there were one or two shirts he was partial to, still likely crammed in there. Probably some of the books she was wanting as well, if he remembered right. Besides, the extra shirts would mean that many more days without having to worry about the wash.

He scooped up the bag, grunting at the heft of it. The zipper slid open smoothly, but it was too dark to see inside of it. Instead, he reached one long, lanky arm in as far as it would go, and began to feel around for anything that resembled books or clothes. There was something that felt like a bottle, and a few boxes; then his fingers brushed against fabric, and he pulled it out to see if it was something that belonged to him, or the other two. Something small and hard had been tangled in the material of the long sleeved, plaid shirt, and it fell to the floor with a dull thunk, followed by a softer sound that resembled the sounds of scales rustling together.

Ron staggered back, his face leached of all color, his freckles standing out like sharp wounds against the stark whiteness. He fell against the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving the twisted hunk of metal on the carpet. It looked so innocent, but Ron knew better. It was evil; pure evil. At least, it had _housed_ the evil. A whimper echoed in the quiet of the room, and he was dimly aware that it came from him. A cold weight, about the length of his thumb and the width of two fingers, pressed against his chest. The voice that had tormented him for months was gone, but the memory of it remained, yawning to life after all this time.

Old insecurities began to wind through his head, poking at all the cracks in his mental armor. Years of comparing himself to his brothers and being found wanting, each of them seeming to have some sort of special quality he lacked. The pain at disappointing his mum by not being the girl she had always wanted; the shameful jealousy of the sister who was. Harry, like a seventh brother, was even harder to measure up to; famous, brave, fairly well off...everyone loves a hero, don't they? Not much love to spare for the gawking, thick headed mass of ginger and freckles that passed for a sidekick.

Love.

How could he deserve Hermione? She was a fit bird, brilliant and going places in the world. It wouldn't be a surprise if she made Minister one day. Wouldn't she be better off with someone that could keep up, and understand all the facts that she was constantly spewing? Why, except for pity and a moment of adrenaline fueled weakness, was she even _with_ someone like him?

He had left them. Left _her._ He was a selfish coward that didn't deserve love or friendship from anyone. He was stupid, poor and pathetic, and he was fooling himself if he thought-

His hands, which had been clenching at his sides, brushed against a lump in his right pocket. Reflexively, his fingers reached for it, the cylinder fitting into his grip as if it had been made for him. It was the Deluminator, and it was the small distraction his mind needed. Blearily, he shook his head. What the hell had he been thinking? He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of the panic induced fog.

It was true that he had never thought of himself as special; he was always looking at his brothers, and finding himself lacking. It wasn't until recently, when he had begun to talk to them more, that he realized that none of _them_ thought of themselves as anything special, either. Even Percy had been overcompensating to get rid of the gnawing inadequacy he felt. The others had been more fortunate; they hadn't bothered to compare themselves with anyone, at least not to the same extent. Still, each one had parts that they didn't like, and felt like that was what was noticed most about them.

He wasn't his brothers, but that didn't mean that he didn't have his own strengths. He was still learning to see them, but they were there. And the people that really mattered had seen them all along, even when he was blind to them.

As for not being the girl his mum had wanted, he had laid that to rest, as well. After Fred had died, she had broken down; She wasn't quite the same mum he had always known, and it had unnerved him a bit. But if he wasn't wanted, then why did she cling to him sometimes, muttering about 'her baby boy,' and 'how I almost lost you?' How could he doubt it when he saw the relief in her eyes every time he walked into the Burrow? And, really, if she had been disappointed that _he_ wasn't a girl, then what did that make the rest of his brothers? He had always been too busy being jealous of her pride in them to see when she showed it for him as well.

Harry was his best mate, and basically another brother, if all was said and done. Harry might be all of the things that Ron thought he was, but he had his bad points too, just like anyone else. And he had never treated Ron as anything less than an equal; the only one who had thought in terms of heroes and sidekicks had been Ron. And while Harry got the most of the public's attention, his name was in the papers right next to Harry's and Hermione's. When he felt like he hadn't done all that much, except try to survive, it was comforting to know that the others felt that way too. He knew how much _they_ had actually done, so why was it such a stretch to think the same of himself?

As for love...

He was loved. His family, his friends, and _her._ It had come as a right shock to find out that she had wanted him just as much as he had her, and probably for longer than he had, as well. He had been so fucked up from running himself down that he hadn't realized that the person he fancied fancied him back; that she _loved him,_ even after seeing him at his worst.

All of those dark, nasty demons that had capered and jibed in his head...they were things that he had made himself. Like a child cutting out paper dolls, he had carefully fashioned his fears to give them the appearance of something that they weren't. But he wasn't a child anymore, and he had given up his fears, or at least clinging to them, that night in the forest.

He wasn't perfect. He reckoned he never would be. But just as he had weaknesses, he had strong points, and he was going to use them to make the world a better place; to make life better for the people around him. He had been accepted as a trainee (no small feat), he had been there to support his family, mainly by helping George, after the war. He and Hermione were finally on track, and he just...he had so much, and there was so much ahead of him. He'd already been told that he had what it took to be a top Auror, and he was going to work to make that come true. He had family that irritated him and loved him all at once, and friends that he could count on. Someday, there were going to be little bushy headed ginger nippers running around, and the shop would be doing a booming business, and the corruption in the Ministry would get sorted-and he was going to be a part of all that.

He was Ron, and he wasn't sure exactly what all that meant yet, but he did know what he wasn't; he wasn't his fears and insecurities. He wasn't what they _told_ him he was.

The icy weight over his chest disappeared. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wand. He glared down at the locket, his lips curled; the thing that used to haunt his every waking moment, and his dreams, looked small and pathetic lying on the floor.

"I'm not afraid of you," he growled quietly. "Not anymore."

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he Banished the locket, a peace settling over him at the finality of the act. Somehow, there was more closure now than there had been when he had destroyed it with the sword. Maybe it was because he had confronted it by himself, this time; maybe it was because now, he could finally see how baseless those fears had really been. Whatever it was, it had helped to heal some of the damage he was still carrying inside.

He straightened his shoulders, a new assurance settling over him. Where was he? Right; One filthy, evil locket redestroyed, and a mountain range of belongings for him to sift through for Hermione, like a Niffler in search of gold. He surveyed the pile hopelessly. Honestly, it looked like the bloody locket had been an easier job. Couldn't he just help her carry everything down once she had sorted through it? Wouldn't that lower the risk of him crushing, dirtying, or otherwise destroying anything? Bolstered by his surge of confidence, he came to a decision. He would wait and help her when she came up; right now, he would go and clear out his own room a bit, so she could move in there with him until her things were sorted. Then, he would get a sandwich.

Afterwards, he had a witch expecting to be ravished, and who was he to disappoint her?

Because he _wasn't_ a disappointment. He was quite capable of meeting high expectations.

_And exceeding them._


	6. Adventures in House-Hunting (K+)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione finding their first flat.**

Hermione recalled a time when she had been blissfully naive; when she was younger, less experienced to the harsh realities of the world. When she had believed that all you had to do to find a flat was save up an appropriate amount of money, search for listings that matched your specifications, give each one a cursory look over, and then pick the one you liked best.

She had been a fool.

Had it really been only yesterday? It was hard to tell. Knowledge and experience had left her hardened and jaded, and she could tell by the trapped expression on her boyfriend's face that he felt the same way. It was nearly gone three in the afternoon, and they had started at seven. The one sandwich he had been able to bolt down for lunch had long since worn off, and she could tell he was going to need a substantial dinner.

Ron wasn't picky. In the little over a year since the war, he hadn't actually had what you could call a fixed abode. His time was split up between the Burrow, to give his mum some peace of mind, George's flat, for obvious reasons, and Grimmauld Place, which was the closest he had to having privacy, and damn little enough of that. He was tired of bouncing from place to place; he wanted all of his boxers in one permanent drawer, and instead of three toothbrushes, he wanted one, parked in a glass in the bathroom next to Hermione's. He wanted to be able to slip into bed with her every night, without having to owl her which bed to Apparate to. With the way the search was going, it was looking like it would be easier to pitch a tent and move into that. He knew things were bad when he realized that was more of a serious consideration rather than a sarcastic exaggeration.

They followed the agent, Lillian, into the next flat on their list, both hoping that this one would be at least halfway suitable. Stepping hesitantly into the entryway, they decided that the lack of horrendous odors (which they had encountered more often than not) was a mark in its favor. Lillian spun around to face them, her electric white teeth flashing in a smile that hadn't wilted a bit, even if the corners of her eyes looked a shade more strained than when they had started out. The blonde in the powder blue powersuit was highly determined, borne from the desperation of a woman who worked on commission.

"I'm sure this one will suit you; it's exactly what you've been looking for!" She enthused. (Ron swallowed his urge to point out that she had said that about the first sixteen places as well.) "There are two bedrooms, and a fully equipped kitchen. The bathroom is on the small side, but perfectly adequate for two people. There's also a lovely view out back, where you can watch the sunset!"

Ignoring her optimism, they began to prowl the rooms like seasoned pros; testing the sinks and shower, feeling around the edges of windows for drafts. They peeled back rugs to check for stains and gouges in the wood, and made sure to check all of the ceilings for signs of leaks. Pleasantly surprised, they began to feel like this might be an option, and traded a hopeful look. That sunset just might be worth checking out...

They stepped out onto the small balcony, which would be perfect with two chairs and a end table between them. It was lovely; there was a nice breeze, and an expanse of grass between this building and the next. Movement from directly across attracted their attention, And Hermione yelped, while Ron spun around, his face bright red. The source of their shock and discomfort was the sight of two witches lounging on their own balcony, sans clothing.

Lillian, unwisely, chose that moment to add, "The neighbors are very friendly, and always willing to lend a hand."

"We have all the _'hands'_ we need, thank you very much," Hermione said pointedly.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. "The view is...nice, but I prefer the one I already have. Besides, If we took the place, I'd end up having to fight off six foot canaries just for checking to see if it was raining."

The agent pursed her lips. "Perhaps you would like to take the rest of the day off to think about your options? We can meet again tomorrow, and see where to go from there."

"That'd be great, really. We'll send an owl when we've decided," Ron jumped in, seeing an end in sight.

Four hours and a large dinner later, they were sprawled out on Ron's bed (the one at Grimmauld Place, the only one big enough for more than half a person to sprawl), going over the notes Hermione had taken.

"The fifth one wasn't too bad. It's a quiet neighborhood, and close to work."

"Hermione, it smelled like cat piss and old woman. Plus the floor in the bathroom is just about rotted through, and you could end up in the apartment below at any minute," Ron argued, adjusting the pillow under his chin. "The third one was alright. I could live with the third one."

"Are you serious? I know we can't afford anything large, but you could actually reach into the refrigerator from the bed." She noticed the pleased expression on his face. "That's _not_ a selling point."

Two got scratched off the list.

She tapped her quill against her knee. "I suppose the sixth was out, even though it was nearly perfect..."

Ron gaped at her in horror and disgust. "How can you even suggest that one?"

Scowling crossly, she shifted to face him. "You liked the smell of cooked meat well enough when you thought it was coming from one of the neighbors," she pointed out.

"Yeah, until I found out it was all that was left of the previous, painfully departed tenant. I could never eat meat in that place knowing what I know, and I love myself too much to turn myself into a rabbit. Cross it off."

"Fine. That just means that we have to look at another batch tomorrow."

His voice was muffled from where he had burrowed his face into the pillow. "Are you sure? Can't I just go into work tomorrow? Or go to the Burrow; Mum's wanting someone to degnome the garden."

Reprieve came in the form of a tapping at the window; Hermione, deciding to let him wallow pathetically, sprang to open it, taking the message from the large tawny owl. Opening it, she saw that it was from Lillian, and she began to bounce excitedly the further she read.

"Ron! Ron, guess what?"

"Is it too much to hope that a distant, unknown relative has died, leaving us their house, thereby solving all of our current problems?"

She smacked his leg as she crawled back onto the bed, waving the letter under his nose triumphantly. "Better, and less morbid! Do you remember the first flat we looked at?"

Of course he did. It had been perfect. Or at least, a perfect place to start. It was a little shabby, but nothing they couldn't live with. So of course, they had to find out that someone else had already made an offer.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"The other people withdrew their offer! If we come in first thing in the morning, we can have it!"

Ron popped up, his grin matching hers. "You're kidding! You know what this means?"

"No more listening to George snore through the walls, or having him accidentally stumbling into the wrong room? No crass jokes over breakfast?" Hermione listed.

"No more running out of hot water, or rolling off the bed in the middle of the night," he continued. "No more sneaking around the Burrow, wondering if Mum is lurking somewhere waiting to pounce on us."

"True; the picnic ruse was getting rather thin, especially in the winter months."

"And best of all, it means not having to hear Harry and my sister getting loud over a game of Exploding Snaps late at night."

Hermione rolled her eyes, leaning back against her pillow to look at him. "Ron, you know very well what they're do-" her voice was cut off as he hurriedly placed his fingers over her lips.

"Shhhh, no. _They. Are. Playing. Exploding Snaps_. They play Exploding Snaps, then crawl under the covers in their matching thick flannel pajamas. I've already lost enough innocence in my life; let me keep this last, tattered shred."

She removed his hand, resting her arms around his neck as he settled himself halfway on top of her. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about them, anyway. I was going to suggest that we celebrate, actually."

Ron kissed her affectionately on the forehead. "Yeah? How?"

Hermione grinned wickedly, pulling him close to whisper in his ear.

"How about a round of Exploding Snaps?"


	7. Bring Back That Lovin' Feelin' (T)

**Prompt: Something about a honeymoon.**

Ron stared despondently at the fireplace, hoping, but not expecting, a flash of green smoke. It was two hours past time for Hermione to be finished with work, but if she followed the pattern of the last two months, she might not be home for another hour. He had already eaten the leftovers from last night, knowing she would say something about having had a sandwich at the office. He hated coming home to an empty flat, and eating alone.

Crookshanks was not exactly a sparkling dinner companion.

It was impossible to pinpoint the day this all started; three months ago, they had both been run off their feet with their jobs and plans for the wedding, and had seen very little of each other. Things had slowed down marginally, at least for him; but he still saw as little of her as before. They were getting married in three weeks, and he was growing more concerned by the day. They rarely talked anymore, and when they had spare time, it was usually spent with someone else. How could a marriage last, if they were already growing apart before it began?

That wasn't even the worst part. No, it was the fact that Hermione was acting... _secretive._ Strange owls kept appearing, and she never mentioned what the messages were about, instead stuffing them away to read later. He had asked, twice, if anything was the matter, and she had become very jumpy, changing the subject as fast as she could, scuttling off to work in her study. Most men, in this situation, would suspect her of cheating. But Ron knew that Hermione would never, ever do something like that. Her integrity, while sometimes overwhelming, was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. Hermione could no more cheat than she could stroll down the middle of London completely starkers. What he did fear, however, was that she was having second thoughts about spending the rest of her life with him. While he was more confident than he had been in his time at school, there was still the awkward, confused fourteen year old boy lurking deep inside him, and he popped up from time to time.

Before his insecurities could come back to haunt him, there was a puff of smoke from the fire, and Hermione stepped out, a huge grin on her face. It made his chest ache with bittersweetness; he loved it when she was happy, and he hadn't seen her smile like that in a long time...he hadn't seemed to have _made_ her smile like that in a long time. There was a brief war inside him as to how to handle all of this. Part of him wanted to get mad, to confront her. But he was older now, and knew that it was hurt rather than anger that he was feeling. His next option was to freeze her out; to try to show her how he felt. But that would only make things worse in the end, and he knew that both methods needed to be put behind him if he wanted any chance of things working out. So, instead, he forced a smile, and waited for her to talk.

She flung herself down on the sofa next to him, cheeks flushed with happiness, eyes bright.

"I've done it! It's taken months, but I've finally done it!" She said in a rush, like a six year old with a secret to tell.

"Do I get to find out what 'it' is?" He replied, carefully keeping his tone light.

Surprisingly, this seemed to sober her. "Yes, I was planning on telling you today. I didn't want to say anything sooner, because I didn't want you to be disappointed if things didn't work out."

This sounded promising; not at all like he was getting the chuck, and he felt some of the tension leave his body. "If what didn't work out?" He asked, genuinely curious now.

Hermione fiddled with a wild strand of hair, her eyes trained on the top button of his shirt. "A few months ago, I began to notice how busy we both were. We were at crucial points at work, and our hours rarely matched up. When we were off, we both had so much else to do to keep up with both sets of family, and you were helping George-" she saw the flicker of guilt on his face, and rushed on, "which I understood completely, of course! It's just that...we never had time for ourselves anymore. It seemed as if we could go for days without saying hardly anything to each other, and it frightened me a bit. I want us to be a couple, Ron; not just two people sharing a flat. So I made a decision."

His heart clenched at the sadness in her voice, but he was also relieved to know that she felt the same way he did.

"Yeah?" He responded hoarsely. "What did you decide?"

Her eyes finally met his, and now they were radiating confidence. "I decided that we weren't going to go on this way. We need a break, and we need one badly; more than that, we need to make sure to take them regularly, at least until things slow down a bit more. I've been working extra hours, not only for the money, but so I can take time off after the wedding. No bringing work home with me, and no owling back and forth; with the extra money, along with my family's gift, we can spend nearly three weeks on our honeymoon. We'll go away somewhere, just the two of us, and we'll talk, and go sight seeing, and do all of the things that we hardly ever get a chance to do, and just...reconnect."

Ron didn't know what to say; he could only find one flaw. "That sounds brilliant, but what about me? I have exams coming up, and I don't think I-"

"I already checked. With the shortage of senior Aurors, and the paperwork mishap they had, the Auror exams have been rescheduled for later. I wanted to make sure the dates were right before I told you, and I had to wait to sneak into the Auror department to ask after you had left."

For the first time tonight, Ron truly felt like smiling. She wasn't tired of them. They weren't growing apart. She wanted to make sure that they grew _together,_ and had done everything in her power to make sure that it happened. And, he had to admit, he was pretty proud of himself. Instead of reacting like he would have before, he had managed to get to the bottom of the problem without things developing into a full blown fight. He was getting the hang of this maturity business, and he had to say, he quite liked the results. On the other hand...there was such a thing as being _too_ mature.

Hermione's expectant expression faded into suspicion, as she scooted away across the sofa, sliding off the end. "Ron, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He schooled his features into a look of innocence, and answered solemnly, "Well, if we're going to have a honeymoon, you know what that means."

She shook her head, edging around the back of the sofa as he advanced on her. "No, I don't think I do."

He grinned wolfishly. "It means that, just like for the wedding, we have some rehearsing to do."

"Ron!"

"That's right; full undress rehearsal."

"Ron!"

"Good, you already have your lines down."

"RON!"

He chased her, laughing and screaming all the way to their room, where he was thorough in showing her exactly how dedicated he was to reconnecting.


	8. The Daily Grind (M)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione back at work after their honymoon, but still feeling amorous. (Can be read as a sequel to the previous chapter)**

Several Aurors raised their heads in amused disgust at the sound of a jauntily whistled tune. They had learned quickly that catcalls and snide comments only made things worse, so they let him alone, hoping his overly cheerful mood would dim with time. And it would; no one could keep up that level of happiness forever. But until it did, Ron was determined to enjoy it, even if those around him didn't.

They had been back from their honeymoon for nearly a week, and were finally getting back into the swing of things at work. The trip had been amazing, and both had been reluctant to return home. Ron found himself, in moments of free time (and some moments that should have been devoted to work), daydreaming about the almost three weeks they had shared. They had hit all of the little tourist traps in the area, and shagged. They had taken in the landmarks and scenic sights, and shagged. They had strolled along the beach at sunset, watched the sunrise from their hotel balcony, and shagged. They had tried new foods in out of the way little restaurants, and shagged. There had been the requisite bickering about pointless things, and make up had reminisced about the more lighthearted moments about their younger years, and had talked seriously about the darker times of the war and it's aftermath. And then for a change of pace, they had shagged.

It had been Hermione's idea to take so much time off by themselves to reconnect after the pressures of work and family had put an unintended strain on them, and it had been _brilliant._ It was soppy, but in a way, he had fallen in love with her all over again, and he felt strangely closer to her than he had before. They both knew that they would settle back into routine when they got home, but they had also agreed to take regular breaks away from the rest of the world to focus on their relationship. He was already looking forward to the weekend, because while they had been able to talk every evening, getting caught back up had put a small halt to the physical side of things.

"Sweet Merlin, Ron! Can you stop looking like that?" Harry said, his face puckering like he had just swallowed a glass of bad pumpkin juice.

Ron perched himself on the corner of his friend's desk, tossing down the papers he had carried over. "Like what? Devastatingly attractive? Sorry, mate, but it's a curse I have to bear."

Harry threw a crumpled sheet of parchment at him, which he batted out of the way. "No, you pillock! That smug, shit eating grin! How can you do that and whistle at the same time? The human mouth shouldn't be capable of that."

Feigning affront, Ron asked, "What, can't I be happy?"

"You're more than happy. That is _not_ the smile of a happy man. That is the smile of a man who has been... _engaging in carnal pleasures,"_ Harry said with an exaggerated shudder.

That caused Ron to hoot with laughter, slapping his leg. "Carnal pleasures? Have you been spending time with Mum lately? Besides, I just got married; what'd you expect!"

Harry ran his hands through his hair, rearranging the tufts that seemed to pop up, regardless of how much he brushed them down. "I expected you to act normal, seeing as how you haven't exactly been living like a monk since the summer you and Hermione got together. I _expected not to have to see every randy thought flashing across your face in regards to someone I think of as a sister."_

Ron shrugged. "Turnabout, and all that. You're just hacked because Ginny's away at training."

He knew he had struck a mark when Harry began to blush, dropping his eyes to the quill he was fiddling with, suddenly intensely interested.

"Shaddup. Don't you have an exam you should be preparing for?"

Before Ron could fire back a nasty retort at that unwelcome reminder, a voice called his name from across the room.

"Weasley? Just got a request sending for you to see if your testimony about some mission or other could be of any use. You should probably get a move on."

He waved to Sethwyke to show he had gotten the message. "Sorry to leave you to do the paperwork by yourself, Harry."

"No you're not. I can hear you snickering on the inside."

"Yeah, you're right; still get points for the effort."

Hopping off the desk, he checked his watch on the way to the door, wondering if this would kill time until it was late enough to clock out. In the outer office, he nodded at Mavis, a middle-aged witch who reminded him of a more laid back version of his Mum. She smiled cheerfully as she sorted through files, and he reminded himself to pick up one of those quills that made your handwriting clearer; she had been helpful to him on several occasions and he didn't want to make her job any harder by forcing her to decipher his writing.

Outside the office, he turned left, deciding to take the back way to the lifts. He didn't really feel like being stopped by too many people, and it was quicker, anyway. He was just passing a supply closet when an arm shot out, grabbed him by the robes, and yanked him in with a startled yelp. Tripping over his feet, he crashed into a much shorter person. A much shorter person that instantly pressed their curvy (compared to his lank form, at any rate) body into his, alerting his keen senses to the fact that he was now trapped in a dark supply closet with some unknown woman. He began to claw out of her grasp like Crookshanks on bath day.

"Madam! Please! I'm a happily married wizard!"

"Glad to hear it; you can stop trying to escape now, because this is your equally happily married wife," came Hermione's voice, laced with amusement.

He stopped squirming. "Hermione? What are you doing here? You're going to make me late for a meeting; not that I wouldn't rather stand here chatting, with this corner of shelving digging into my back, but they might come looking for me."

"Lumos," she said, the tip of her wand glowing between them. "There is no meeting! That was just a ruse to get you here!"

Ron grinned. "A ruse? Should I have worn dark glasses and a fake mustache?"

She smacked his shoulder. "I'm trying to be romantic, and you're making fun of me!"

Restraining himself from asking when supply closets had been classified as romantic, he hurried to soothe her, "I'm all for romance! Haven't the last few weeks proven that? Or have you forgotten already?"

In the bluish light from her wand, he could see the color rise in her cheeks. "Actually, I could do with a bit of a reminder; that's why I'm here."

Plucking her wand from her hand, he set it on a lower shelf, so it wasn't shining directly into their eyes. "I reckon I can help with that," he said, just before his lips connected with hers. He had meant it to be gentle, and brief. But Hermione's hands, which had moved to cup his face, held him in place, and she deepened the kiss. They both moaned softly, and Ron realized, as the movements of her tongue became more suggestive, coupled with the way her hips kept grinding into him, that she had waylaid him for much more than a snog. This was confirmed when she stealthily undid his robes and pushed them down his shoulders, leaving him in his casual junior Auror uniform. He had left the jacket undone under his robes, and her fingers made quick work on the buttons of his button up shirt.

Not to be outdone, he managed to relieve her of her own robes, only pausing long enough for her to move her hands so he could discard it. She was wearing a thin jumper with her skirt today, and he pushed it up out of the way, squeezing her through the satiny cups of her bra. She nipped at his lower lip, worrying it between her teeth, the air crackling with their mounting pasion. He dropped a hand to her thigh, sneaking it up her skirt to work his fingers between her legs. The fabric was soaked, and he shoved it to the side to touch her directly. Pulling his head back, he leered down at her, watching as she tossed her hair back with a sigh.

"Something tells me that this wasn't a spur of the moment decision," he teased, both with his words and his hand.

"I've... _ah!_ Been toying with the idea for awhile."

"Is that the only thing you've been toying with?" He growled playfully against her ear, pumping his fingers faster as she thrust her hips into his hand.

"M...Maybe," she admitted with a gasp, and he bit his lip at the images that one word put into his mind.

She was shakily undoing his belt and trousers, stroking firmly over the bulge in his boxers every few minutes. He was thrown off his rhythm when she lowered his trousers and pants down to his thighs, her hand wrapping around around him and giving a firm tug.

"Ron, can you please just-I need-"

Her words were completely unnecessary; bending his knees slightly, he gripped her by the back of her thighs and lifted, pinning her against the small portion of wall that wasn't covered by shelving. Her legs wrapped around him reflexively, and he lowered her down, burying his face into her neck at the feel of her surrounding him. Sharp nails dug into his shoulders, but he barely noticed, too focused on the place where they were joined together. The pulse at the side of her neck fluttered wildly, and he placed open mouthed kisses against her throat, taking pleasure in the way she tightened around him at the stimulation he paid to the sensitive flesh.

It wasn't long before he felt himself getting close, and he adjusted her so that he could slip one hand between them to help her get off faster. Her moans were getting louder, and to make sure they weren't overheard, he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the cries she let out when she finally came. Her release triggered his, and his hips thrust spasmodically a few more times before slowing down, the small room filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing.

He set Hermione back on her feet, keeping his hands on her waist as she unsteadily tried to regain her balance.

"Was that a good enough reminder, then?" He asked, still a bit out of breath.

She laughed as they both began to tidy themselves up. "I think it brought back a few hazy memories, but I might need your assistance again in the near future."

The buckle of his belt snapped into place as he smirked back. "Just send me a coded message telling me which closet you'll be in, and I'll do my best."

Ten minutes later, after a few more kisses and a promise to meet in the lobby before heading home, Ron strolled back into the Auror office, whistling even more cheerfully than he had been earlier. He went to check on Harry, to see if there was anything left to do. Harry took one look at him and made gagging noises, dropping his his head, face first, onto the table with a dull thud.

"Bloody hell; just when I thought it couldn't get any worse!" He lamented mournfully.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, puzzled.

"Don't act innocent! You were just starting to lose the buzz you've been walking around with, and get back to normal. I don't know how you did it, _and I don't want to know,_ but you've managed to stock yourself back up!" Harry accused, rolling his head to glare up at him with one eye.

Ron grinned wickedly, suddenly struck by an idea. He turned on the heel of his boot, going back the way he had entered.

"Ron? Where are you going?" Harry called after him.

He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes alight with mischief. "I'm going out to tell Mavis that I'm volunteering to make sure the supply closets stay fully... _stocked."_

Laughing, he left Harry choking at his desk, his mind already working on ways to convince Hermione to join him for a little two handed inventory.


	9. Game of Cushions (K+)

**Prompt: Crookshanks gets jealous when Hermione adopts a new kitten.**

Ron loved coming home to the peace of the flat after a long day's work; just by walking in the door, he could feel the accumulated stress of the day melt from his shoulders. He enjoyed his job, but sometimes his coworkers could be bloody stupid, and some of the things he saw while out on a case were enough to make him question his faith in the human race. Home was safe. Home was Hermione and dinner, evenings spent on the sofa; being able to talk about his day, or sit in companionable silence. And within five minutes, he would know whether or not it was going to be a night he had to cook, the rule being that the first one home made dinner. (Loitering somewhere else automatically earned another night of cooking, something they agreed on after catching each other skulking at the pub three nights in one week.)

He toed off his scuffed work boots, using his foot to shove them over by the wall, listening for any sounds of his wife. Drat. Quiet. Maybe he could get away with ordering something?

YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWRRRRRRRR!

He stumbled back at the blood curdling cry, his wand instantly in his hand as he tried to fight down the surge of panic at the thought that Hermione was in trouble. But before he could go in search of her, Crookshanks stumbled around the corner, making enough racket that would have the neighbors complaining if he didn't stuff it soon. Ron lowered his wand, but he was still concerned. Crookshanks gave him a wide eyed, mournful look, threw himself to the ground, and rolled onto his back, his feet sticking straight up in the air. Warily, Ron moved closer, hoping the blasted animal wasn't going to choose now of all times to die; although the animosity between them had lowered considerably, he still wanted an alibi when the beast kicked off, just in case.

"Crookshanks, get back in here! You're overreacting, and I won-Oh! Ron, you're home!"

A startled looking Hermione popped into view, and while Ron would normally be delighted at the sight, (and the knowledge that he could foist off cooking responsibilities onto his beloved wife), he had other things aside from his next meal on his mind at the moment. Like if he was going to be expected to conjure up a kitty coffin in the near future, for instance.

"Hermione? What's up with your cat? He hasn't gotten into anything poisonous, has he?"

She tugged at the sleeve of her work robes, the fact that she was still wearing them telling him that she hadn't been home long. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes couldn't quite seem to meet his. Inwardly, he groaned; this couldn't mean anything good.

No, no, nothing like that. He's just being...obstinate. You know he doesn't like to share me very much-"

"The scars on my arse from the first night we spent together remind me on a regular basis, yes," he cut in, shooting the cat in question a glare.

"And he's not taking the news that...well, Ron...what would you say if I told you that we were going to have a... _little visitor_? Hold on, let me show you."

Ron felt his knees begin to buckle as she scurried back the way she had come, and he leaned against the wall, his jaw slack. But...but they had been careful! They had agreed to wait a few years, at least until they had a small place of their own! Would Hermione want to stay home for awhile afterwards? Would he need to take some time off himself? When had it happened?

A gurgling noise from the ball of fur at his feet drew his attention back to the present. "You and me both," he responded sympathetically.

Hermione returned quickly with a small bundle, and Ron felt his confusion mount. He might not be up in all the ins and outs of this (well, actually, that was the part he was _sure_ of, to be honest), but he didn't think results happened quite this fast. Hesitantly, but with an air of pride, she shoved the blanketed figure at him, and he found himself staring down into a pair of...slitted, yellow-green eyes.

"Hermione, I know I can be thick sometimes, but there's no way that even you could convince me that I'm the father," he stated flatly, as the figure squirmed in her grasp, surprised to find that there was disappointment mixed with his relief.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Just look at the poor little thing! I was on my way home, and a group of boys were throwing rocks at him."

Ron eyed the kitten emerging from the dark red towel, it's tabby stripes made even darker from the fact that it was damp. It was small and skinny, about ninety-five percent eyes.

"So you couldn't just run them off, and let the cat go about its business?"

Hermione frowned and clutched the kitten to her chest. "They also had a can of petrol and some matches."

He cringed. "Alright, I can see that you couldn't leave him. But what are you going to do with him? Crookshanks doesn't look too excited about being a surrogate dad."

Crookshanks hissed, and scuttled into the next room.

"He'll come around once he realizes what a sweet kitten Eldrick is," she assured him, scratching the kitten behind the ears.

Ron was less than sure, but realized the futility of arguing with a woman that had named an animal. Once they gave it a name, you were stuck with it.

He was right to have reservations, as the next week and a half proved. The kitten, which Ron now realized was fifty percent eyes and fifty percent appetite, was in itself no trouble at all. He staggered around the flat on spindly legs, and was content to spend most of his time curled up on a lap or cushion. Of course, the problem was that he chose the lap and cushion that Crookshanks considered to be _his._ Crookshanks wasn't about to be usurped quietly. And Ron had to give him credit; the older cat was crafty. He had tried burying Eldrick under an entire box of kitty litter, had dropped him into the wastebin, and had nearly drowned him in his water bowl. Just yesterday, they had caught him next to an open window, holding Eldrick between his teeth by the scruff of the neck, preparing to drop him three stories. Hermione had been horrified, and had promptly made the situation worse by setting up Eldrick on Crookshanks' favorite cushion by the fire, with a dish of cream. Crookshanks had sulked in the closet all night, angry growls barely muffled by their coats.

His attitude towards Ron had changed as well, after the second day when Ron had argued that Hermione shouldn't blame him for being upset. Now the cat seemed to follow him everywhere, and Ron was forced to admit that he rather liked the company. He just wished that Crookshanks would ease up on the wailing; on his way to work the other day, one of the neighbors commented that it sounded like the honeymoon hadn't worn off, and had given him a wink and nudge. All of which made Ron feel rather sick when he finally caught on to what was meant.

He shook his head, dislodging the image of Hermione Polyjuiced into a cat, and settled back onto the sofa, preparing to read the paper. Hermione sat next to him, and pulled out a little packet of cat treats, crooning baby talk to Eldrick. Ron watched in disbelief as, right before the betrayed eyes of Crookshanks, she gave the kitten not one, not two, but _three_ treats. Which happened to be the last three treats in the packet. Hermione seemed to realize this too late, although she didn't yet understand the magnitude of her mistake.

"Oh dear, I'll have to get more the next time I'm out. Sorry, Crookshanks. Here, hop up on my lap!" She picked up her book and patted her thigh.

Crookshanks glared at her, and leapt, but not onto her lap. Ron gave a jerk as the solid weight of the ginger cat landed on top of him. Crookshanks then proceeded to give her a small hiss, and then curled himself into a ball, showing her his back. Oh-oh, this couldn't be good.

"Crookshanks? Don't you want to-" Hermione asked softly, reaching out a hand.

Instead of turning to her, he curled himself in a tighter ball. Hermione pulled her hand back, her lip trembling as she looked at Ron.

"He hates me!"

She sounded like she was going to cry, which was something Ron was eager to prevent. "Hermione, he doesn't hate you, okay? He's just...miffed. After all, those were his favorite treats you just gave away. I'd feel the same if you gave Harry the last of my biscuits."

This wasn't the right thing to say, as evidenced by Hermione springing from the sofa and rushing from the room. Crookshanks abruptly hopped from his lap to the sofa cushion, casually batting Eldrick off the edge.

"You know, giving her the cold shoulder isn't going to help. Trust me; been there, done that. And you're making things unpleasant for me now, too, and I'm innocent in all this," Ron tried to reason, only feeling slightly ridiculous for doing so.

Crookshanks gave him a narrow look, and proceeded to wash a paw.

Well, he hadn't held much hope on that working. But it looked like it was up to him to solve things before Hermione got any more upset than she already was. Or before one of Crookshanks' assassination attempts was successful. The kitten, which had plopped itself down on his foot, was a cute little guy. It was just a shame that Hermione had rescued him only to bring him to a place where he was unlikely to live to adulthood, much less a ripe old age...he sat upright, the gears in his mind turning swiftly. It was a risk, but it just might work.

The next day, Hermione entered the flat, cheering inwardly when she saw that Ron was already home; then she frowned, as there was no sign that dinner had been thought of, let alone even started. Instead, her husband was sprawled on the sofa with a Quidditch magazine. Setting her briefcase on a small table, she came to stand in front of him.

"Ron, please tell me you're not planning on ordering takeaway again," she pleaded.

Dropping the magazine at the sound of her voice, he grinned up at her. "Better; We're going to the Burrow for supper."

"Don't tell me that you made your mother-" she started, but he waved his hands at her.

"I didn't ask! Neither did she, actually. It was more of a command appearance for the whole clan."

Hermione relaxed. Thank Merlin; She was exhausted, and the guarantee of a homecooked meal that she didn't have to prepare went a long way to brightening her mood.

"Alright, I'll just go change into something else, feed Eldrick, and then we can go," she called over her shoulder, as she went towards the bedroom.

Ron let her go, unsurprised when she darted back almost instantly.

"Ron, where's the kitten? Did you let him out? You know that if Crookshanks sees him, he'll-"

"Not to worry! Eldrick is no longer with us; he's gone to a much better place."

Hermione flew across the room, her expression one of panic as she shook him by the arm.

"How can you be so calm? What happened? Why didn't you owl me? What did you do to his poor little body? Or did Crookshanks even leave a body behind?"

Realizing his poor choice of words, Ron rushed to reassure her. "No! No, nothing like that! I just meant that I solved our problem! It wasn't fair to the poor animal to have Crookshanks stalking him, and it wasn't fair for Crookshanks to have his turf invaded. And you were all upset thinking he didn't like you anymore...so I fixed it!"

Hermione stood there a moment, nonplussed at his beaming expression. "And just how did you fix it?" She finally asked.

"Oh. Yeah. You know Mrs. Willis, from down the hall? Remember her old tabby died about a month ago, and how down she's been? Since she doesn't have any family and all, she gets sort of lonely. I thought a kitten might be just the thing, and she was thrilled with the idea, and says you can drop around to visit him any time you want."

Again, she found herself speechless. The kitten was sweet, and she hadn't wanted to abandon it to an uncertain fate, but not at the cost of Crookshanks. And Ron had figured a way out of it, and made an elderly lady happy in the process.

He barely had time to react before she launched herself at him, kissing him with an unexpected fierceness. When she finally pulled away, he stared at her in shock.

"I'm going out directly after supper, and buying a cat for every old woman in England," he announced.

Hermione laughed. "I don't think that will be necessary, but it's a sweet thought."

Crookshanks chose that moment to enter the room, and trotted over to her, purring and winding himself about her legs. Bending over, she scooped him up. "And I see that I've been forgiven, as well. Remind me to bring him a few leftovers home tonight."

"As long as they don't come out of mine."

Hermione gave Crookshanks one final squeeze before setting him down. "Wouldn't dream of it. I'm going to go take a shower before I change, alright? I'll be out in a few minutes."

Ron stood to follow her. "I think I'll come along and help," he said with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled back at him, not protesting in the least.

Crookshanks returned to his favorite overstuffed cushion with a contented purr. The interloper was gone, there was the promise of food, and a nice long nap while he waited. He settled in for a snooze, when Ron popped his head around the corner. Crookshanks regarded him with a new fondness; who knew he would have turned out to be so useful? The fondness was replaced by worry as Ron's expression morphed into a wicked grin.

"Your arse is mine for that little favor. Remember that the next time you try to take a swipe at me when my bits are out, or trip me when I'm looking for a late night snack. You. Owe. Me."

With a final, dark laugh, the man was gone, leaving the cat to sit in contemplation at this turn of events. While Crookshanks had harbored no ill will towards Ron since the end of their first year together, he had enjoyed their little war. And to give him his due, he had grown up alright, and had turned out to be an excellent mate for his human. So perhaps it was time to call a ceasefire, as it were. Still, he was a cat, and there was no way that he could allow a human to ever think he had the upper hand. As he kneaded the cushion, his whiskers twitched in sly amusement.

Perhaps a hairball in his left shoe tomorrow morning. Just to make sure he didn't forget his place.


	10. Bed Unrest (M)

**Double prompt: Ron hurt during a mission, and pregnant, jealous Hermione.**

Just gone five on a Thursday evening, and Ron Weasley was flat on his back, completely legless. Not, as one would suspect, that he was drunk, or in the more gruesome sense of having been separated from his lower extremities. No, his problem was being in the unenviable position of having been in the wrong place at the wrong time when a modified Jelly-Legs Jinx was fired, which had landed him in St. Mungo's until they could sort it all out and reverse the effects. It was a fairly common type of injury, and they didn't expect him to be there more than two or three days.

Which suited Ron just fine.

Normally, the inactivity would drive him barmy, as would sleeping away from Hermione. But now the prospect of boredom didn't bother him a bit, and he rather hoped the Mediwizards would take their time fixing up a cure, if it meant he had a few days off from his beloved wife. He was safer here, really. Harry had laughed when he told him of his woes, and hadn't been sympathetic in the least. But he didn't _understand._ Hermione in a temper was one thing, but Hermione _pregnant_ was a whole other story.

One minute, she would be blissfully happy, all cuddles and kisses. He liked that mode; he could handle that just dandy. But the next minute she was a bawling mess, positive that if she got any bigger, they would have to rent a barn to keep her in. Which was ridiculous, because while her stomach was a bit rounded, to him it didn't look any bigger than his after a hefty Christmas dinner. The least little thing seemed to set her of recently, And a few days of not having to tiptoe around with his words might do him some good. Because he tried, he really did, but he knew that he wasn't always sensitive to the cues she was giving off. So when they had brought him in last night, he had sent Harry home in lieu of an owl to explain while he fetched a few things to bring him for his stay.

It had coincided with some type of emergency in her department, so he had only seen her briefly this morning when he was allowed visitors, before she had left him, after making him promise her that he would owl if he needed her. He might not be Mr. Sensitivity, but he was smart enough to send an owl that afternoon, just to tell her he missed her and was thinking about her. Women liked that sort of thing, and it was true anyway. (Though he had enough experience not to mention that he missed 'normal' Hermione more than 'hormonal' Hermione.)

He wasn't destined to miss her for long, however, because unless he was very much mistaken, that was her head that had just popped in the door. Since he doubted 'bushy' was the latest hair trend, he figured it was a safe bet.

"Ron? How are you feeling? Have they made any progress with reversing the Jinx?" She asked, as she came into the room, pulling a chair up to the side of his bed.

"I'm fine. Still can't feel my legs, let alone move them, but other than that, I can't complain. They said they almost have it figured out, so it shouldn't be too long now."

He tilted his head up to catch her lips as she leaned over to kiss him, which she did with a tender enthusiasm that made him, for the first time, regret his immobility.

"Mmmm. That's too bad. I was hoping you'd get to come home tonight; I miss you, you know."

Oh good, it was Cuddly Hermione. If it was Cuddly Hermione, he could risk reaching out to give her belly a gentle pat, something which oddly delighted him, and at turns made her either beam at him all misty eyed, or rage at him for 'patting her like livestock.' He glanced quickly up at her face. Misty eyed it was. Maybe she was finally over the worst part of the hormonal phase?

She squeezed his hand, and sat down, smoothing the covers over him and adjusting the edges. He used his arms to push himself up further on his pillows, grunting slightly at the dead weight of his legs.

"Does it hurt?" She asked, her forehead creasing with worry.

"No, 's'just a bloody nuisance to move, is all. Did everything get fixed at work?"

Hermione slumped back in her seat, groaning at the thought. "Finally. We're still not sure who messed up the paperwork, but it turns out six people were assigned to the same case, and it was hard to untangle without stepping on any toes."

"But you didn't stress yourself out, did you? You've been having a hard enough time keeping food down as it is," Ron asked, not liking the idea that he wasn't around to make sure she was resting properly. It might be nice and quiet here, but keeping an eye on the health of her and the baby was worth a little yelling. It was worth a _lot_ of yelling.

"I haven't been sick in three days, so hopefully Mum was right, and I'll be like her and get that out of the way with early."

There was a tap on the door, before it opened to reveal a young woman barely out of Hogwarts. She was a well shaped brunette with high cheekbones, which were accentuated when she smiled.

"Good evening, Mr. Weasley! I just stopped in to see if there was anything you needed, and to tell you that your dinner tray should be ready soon. Would you like a sponge bath after you've eaten?"

Ron, who had brightened at the sight of her, quickly paled when he heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath, and nearly tried to crawl off the bed at the mentioned of a bath.

"Ah, um, dinner sounds brilliant, but I think I'll, erm, skip the bath," he managed to squeak out, watching Hermione go from Cuddly to Carnivorous out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright then, I'll be back with your food shortly!"

Hermione watched the young Mediwitch in training leave, her eyes narrowed and glittering. As soon as the door closed, she whirled on Ron, who was frantically willing his legs to move.

"Just who was that?" She hissed.

"Who?" Realizing that would be a stupid move, he hurried on, "Oh! Elsie. She does the evening rounds on this floor."

"I _bet_ she does. I noticed you brightened up as soon as you saw her! What was all that about?"

Oh, Merlin, she had that deranged, pre-canary look in her eyes. He hadn't seen that look since sixth...no, since he came back to camp after destroying the locket, and he had no desire to repeat either of those encounters.

"Of course I did! When she shows up, it means food! You know how I am when food's involved!" He tried to explain.

She stood over him, shaking as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "It's because I'm fat now, isn't it? You want someone young and skinny, so you've asked them to keep you here as long as possible!"

"What? No! You're not fat! And even if you _were,_ I wouldn't trade you in for a new model like you were some kind of broom!"

Hermione sniffled. "But she's nice, and she brings you food, and I bet she's more stable than I am...she's pretty, isn't she?"

She was breaking out the big spells, he thought, sweating nervously. The anger was easier to handle, but he could never bear the tears. And why did she have to bring 'pretty' into it? But he wasn't stupid enough to fall for that; if he said that Elsie wasn't pretty, Hermione would think he was hiding something. He wasn't hiding anything! He didn't _want_ to hiding anything! Except for himself; he very much wanted to hide himself. He wondered how fast he could drag himself with just his arms, and he realized the answer was, not very.

"It's her _job_ to be nice and bring me food, she's more stable than you because she _isn't carrying my child-_ and I wouldn't want her to, I might add! And yes, she's pretty, but so what? the Mediwizard in charge of my case is a fine looking bloke, but I'm not running off with him anytime soon, either."

For one brief, shining moment, he thought he had gotten through to her; the sensible, rational witch he had exasperatedly fallen in love with made an appearance, and all was well.

All for the span of about five seconds, and then that crazed, calculating look was back in her eye.

With a quick flick of her wand, she cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door. Surreptitiously, Ron chanced a glance at his own wand, on the bedside table. It was just out of reach; he'd never make it. Whimpering, he burrowed himself into the mattress, commending his soul to a higher power. He'd had a good life; his one major regret was that he would never get to see the face of his child.

Oh hell, his real regret was that his wife was going to murder him in his hospital bed, but at least his last thoughts could be noble. With a nod of satisfaction, Hermione circled around the bed, with the interesting new walk she had developed. Not a full on waddle, but a sort of exaggerated sway. It would give him ideas if he didn't think he was on the brink of death. Alright, it gave him ideas anyway. He watched as she carefully placed her wand next to his. What was this? No magic? Did she plan on doing the deed with her bare hands?

Hermione tossed back his covers with a predatory gleam in her eyes that, had he not known better, he might mistake for randiness, but he wasn't holding out hope for a farewell shag.

"Hermione? Love? What are you doing?"

Her eyes raked him up and down, as one hand began to pop open the buttons on his pajama top.

"You said some very nice things just now; I'm just going to give you some incentive to keep thinking that way."

"But I don't need any incentive to be- _fucking hell!"_

His eyes bugged out as she quickly discarded her robes and dress, leaving her in only her bra and knickers. She swung up onto the bed, straddling his lap. She reached behind her and unclasped the fastening, letting the bra fall to her arms as she leaned forward, her face inches from his.

"Just sit back, let me do the work, and when Elsie comes back with your tray, you can tell her that you've already had your dessert," she growled possessively.

What could he say to that? He was supposed to be taking it easy, but like they said; there was no rest for the wicked.

Apparently, that applied to the wickedly attractive, as well.


	11. Expansion Package (T+)

**Prompt: Ron returns from a mission with a larger... _wand._**

(I am alive, and the next update for To Know You is to Love You should be up this week. Until then, enjoy a little extra Ron. Or not-so-little Ron.)

The rabbit-faced, seedy little man that stood in the middle of the squalid hovel put Ron in mind of Mundungus Fletcher. Maybe it was the shifty eyes, or the fact that they were both in the business of supplying people with illegal potion ingredients. Whatever it was, he knew that the man spelled trouble. Or he would, if he wasn't currently surrounded by six Aurors, his wand already taken by Harry. Ron kept a tight grip on his; while Ezekiel Codges might no longer be a threat, and the place had been given the all clear, he knew that could change at any time. He was alert. Constant Vigilance.

Funny thing, about Constant Vigilance; it didn't do a damn bit of good if the danger came from someone you were supposed to be able to trust.

"Gentlemen, I assure you that your claims are baseless! Why, I've been making Relaxing Potions right here in my home for the past thirty years, and it's always been perfectly legal!" Ezekiel blustered.

"I'm sure the potions are very 'relaxing,'" Auror Haskins said dryly, "but they're also much more than that, and you know it."

Much more is right, Ron thought. They had gotten the tip off this morning about the location of a manufacturer of illegal Love Potions. Well, there was supposedly an entire line of questionable erotic products, but the Love Potion was the one in direct violation of the law. Even George only sold special prank Love Potions, which were specifically designed to prevent the person being forced to do anything physically intimate against their will. The worst that happened was that they would get all soppy, and go around spouting bad poetry. That had actually been put into place before the Ministry banned Love Potions; both he and Fred had invented them after Ron had been poisoned, and George had gone through the process of getting approval to keep selling them. Ron, of course, had been a victim during the trial phase. He would've beaten George bloody, but Hermione had been impressed by his limericks, so he got to keep his remaining ear.

"Weasley! Have you heard a word I've been saying?" Haskins bellowed.

Ron tried not to jump. Damn. He had been focusing so much on the doorway, that he had lost track of what was going on around him.

"Sir?"

"Let me fill you in, Weasley; as there are no actual ingredients lying around to be identified, and the potions have all been bottled, we need to test them to make sure we have grounds for an arrest. Congratulations; you've just volunteered."

Ron was unable to keep the look of horror off of his face as the other Aurors snickered; even Harry, the sod, was trying to smother a grin as he shrugged sympathetically. Knowing that Haskins was itching to write him up for something, he walked, with resignation, over to the long wooden table that had dozens of glass bottles lined up on its surface. Grabbing one at random, he pulled at the cork and gave it a sniff. At least it didn't smell as bad as Polyjuice.

"Cheers," he said sarcastically, wondering if Hermione would be qualified to draw widow's benefits. He tipped the bottle back, taking a long pull.

"Not that much, you fool!" Codges yelped, causing Ron to fumble the bottle.

"What? Why not that much?" Harry asked tightly.

Yes. Yes, Ron was wondering that as well. Fuck, was this going to be sixth year all over again? A curious warmth spread through his lower stomach, tickling in a not altogether unpleasant way. Huh. Maybe it really _was_ just a Relaxing Potion.

And maybe Scabbers had been just a rat.

"Because...because it's a male enhancing potion, and with as much as he's taken, who knows what'll happen?" Codges admitted.

No sooner had he spoken than Ron began to feel hot, and more than a bit tight in the trouser area. His head swam, and there was a slight tearing sound as his boxers gave way under the strain. There was a weight in his pants that alarmed him, as did the slight bulge visible through his robes. He'd had a hard on in them before, and had always been thankful that the loose material rendered them invisible. With a whimper, he pushed the robes aside, then hastily dropped them back in place. Merlin's balls, kill him now! This was worse than sixth year; at least then he had had a chance of dying to avoid the embarrassment.

"Holy shit, Ron!" Harry gasped, his eyes bulging at Ron's...bulge.

Ron shuffled around, his hands coming up to cup himself; he didn't like to be stared at, and he was aching as well.

"Harry, would you mind not staring like that at my bits?" He pleaded, feeling rather light headed.

"Potter, take Weasley back to headquarters and have Henderson look him over. I think we have enough to manage here." Haskins said, with an uncharacteristic look of pity.

Harry nodded, coming over to put Ron's arm around his shoulder as he began to slump. "C'mon, Ron, we'll go get you fixed."

Ron shuddered at Harry's choice of words. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of," he muttered before Harry Apparated them away.

An hour later, Ron shuffled through the door of the flat, trying to sneak into the bedroom before Hermione caught him. He made it past the living room and down the hall, his goal in sight and his hopes high. Naturally, he bumped into Hermione coming out of the bedroom.

"Ron!" She gasped in surprise. "I didn't think you'd be home for hours yet." At his mournful expression, she began to look him over for signs of injury. "What's wrong? Did something happen? Are you alright?"

He batted her hands away from his robe gently, taking a step out of her reach. "I'm fine! Well, I'm not, but I will be. Hopefully."

Her expression still worried, she scanned his body for any trace of blood or loss of limb. Everything was as it should be; everything except...

"Ron, is that your wand, or are you happy to see me?" She giggled, having always wanted to use that line before.

He groaned, and he wasn't sure if it was from physical pain, or the lousy pun. "Hermione, please. I just want to get in bed-"

"Yes, the evidence indicates as much."

" _alone,_ and try to sleep this off."

Hermione blinked. That wasn't like Ron at all. "Are you sure you're alright? Normally, you'd be trying to convince me to join you."

Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to keep her in the dark, he explained in as few words as possible.

"That was incredibly dangerous! Anything could have been in that bottle!" She exclaimed indignantly. "Here, let me see. Maybe it's not that bad."

Before he could protest, she had parted his robes, her face going pale as she caught sight of his erect member poking from his mangled clothes.

"There is no way that I'm even going to try to-to!" She stuttered.

"This may come as a surprise, but I'm not exactly in the mood myself!" He hissed.

She kept staring, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. "My God, Ron! Are you sure you shouldn't go to St. Mungo's? Aren't you in pain? Should we try to put ice on it?"

"No! No ice! And it's fine, really. The Auror Healer said that the swelling should go down by morning, but if it hasn't, then they can help at hospital. He gave me a pain potion and something to help with the bloodflow, but I'm not to try any other potions or Charms on it, just in case," he explained, cutting her off before she decided to experiment for herself.

There was a whooshing sound from the living room, announcing the fact that someone had just Flooed into the flat. Ron covered himself hastily, and let Hermione stand in front of him.

"Ron? You here?" They heard George call out.

Ron groaned. Of all of his relatives, why George?

George popped his head into the hall. "There you are! I came as soon as I heard," he said, joining them with a small black bag in his hand.

"Heard? How did you hear? I made Harry swear to keep his mouth shut!"

A small, sardonic smirk appeared on his brother's face as he nodded. "Yeah, and that meant he told Ginny, who told the rest of the family, who are probably telling-"

Ron closed his eyes. Maybe he had died earlier, and this was hell.

"George, if you've come over here to poke fun at him-" Hermione started angrily.

"Easy! I actually came to help. I'm not exactly a stranger to this particular problem, so you're in luck, Ron."

He backed away slowly. "Um, er...I'd really rather not..."

"What exactly do you mean by not being a stranger to this problem?" Hermione asked.

George grimaced. "Tried the same thing awhile back, had nearly the same results the first time. Ange got hacked and made me go to St. Mungo's. Let me tell you that their idea of draining the snake is _not_ the same as yours and mine."

The thought made Ron flinch, his hands hovering over himself protectively.

"Well, do you think you can do anything for this?" Hermione asked briskly, stepping aside and yanking open Ron's robes.

George dropped his bag, and his jaw. "Holy...maybe we better get Harry over here; he's the one that goes around killing basilisks!" He said, voice full of awe.

"That's _not_ helping," Ron growled, tugging his robes closed again.

His brother gave his head a sharp shake. "Sorry, Ron. It's just...well, it looks like one of Hagrid's prize cucumbers. Let's get you into the loo and see what we can do."

George took him by the arm, and started to steer him into the other room.

"Do you need me to help?" Hermione asked from behind them.

"Nah, I've got it; you're going to have to look at it again eventually, so there's no point in putting you off entirely," George answered as he shut the door.

Hermione hovered out in the hall, catching their muttered voices.

"Blimey, it's amazing it hasn't split like an overcooked sausage..."

"Not helping!"

"Sorry, just let me get-here we are!"

" _I CAN RUB THAT IN MYSELF, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"_

"Well _excuse me_ for trying!"

"Ugh, why the hell is this stuff so slick?"

"That's because it doubles as a lube. Handy stuff; go ahead and keep the tub. You might need it, if this doesn't go down all the way."

" _Not! Helping!"_

She paced nervously, wondering if they shouldn't go to St. Mungo's after all. She turned as the door opened, and she scanned Ron's face, not trusting herself to look below his waist.

Ron smiled, manfully holding in tears of relief. "It's almost back to normal. Just about an inch or so bigger," he said with a sigh.

George came out behind him. "It should be fine by the time you go to bed, but if not, just slather some more on. See you both at Sunday dinner; I'd stay to see how things turn out, but we're training a new stock boy, and he's already started three fires this week alone."

"Thanks, George. I might not kill Harry and our dear sister for telling you," Ron said gratefully.

Grinning, George stepped into the fireplace. "Don't get too comfortable; you didn't really think that this is something I'll let you forget, did you?" He laughed as he tossed a handful of Floo powder, calling out the name of his shop.

Ron shrugged. If George wanted to play dirty, that was fine. He'd take great pleasure in reminding him of his own experiences.

"Are you really better? Or should we go see a Healer in the morning?" Hermione fretted.

Feeling that this was getting to become a habit, he opened his robes to expose himself. "See? Almost perfectly normal."

Hermione came close, bending forward to examine it carefully. "Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you," she muttered, her lips twitching.

"What was that?"

"Nevermind, it's a Muggle thing," she said absently, reaching out to stroke him, testing to see if he really was alright.

She got her answer when he thrust into her hand with a groan, causing her to lick her lips.

"Ron. I know you said that you weren't in the mood before..."

"That was before."

"And really, we should try it out, just to, you know-"

"Be on the safe side?"

"Exactly! I mean, It looks alright, but it needs to be-"

"Tested thoroughly? I agree!"

With that decided, he allowed her to pull him into the bedroom; after all, if there was any lasting damage, he would have to find out now so he could put it in his report, right?

After an intensive and vigorous testing, Ron decided that while he wouldn't wish this particular injury on anyone, the side effects were _outstanding._

He would have to ask George exactly how his research was getting along...and possibly volunteer for further testing.


	12. Picture Perfect (K)

**Prompt: Hermione and Molly bond over childhood photos of Ron.**

Hermione stared at the ceiling, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the window of Ginny's room. Ginny was snoring softly next to her, but that wasn't what was keeping her from sleeping. All day, she had managed to avoid thinking of her parents, and what she had done to them, by keeping herself busy helping with wedding preparations. Helping with wedding preparations, and reminding herself that Bill was a wonderful person, that he loved Fleur, and that she had stood by him after his attack; it wouldn't be right to strangle her with the decorative ribbons. Even if it would be highly satisfying... The only good thing she could think of on that subject was the fact that Ron had seemed to have gotten over his awkward drooling problem around the part Veela. Which was wonderful, really, because the last thing she needed after the whole mess with Lavender this past year was to watch Ron moon over another girl. Another girl that wasn't _her._ She shook her head, frustrated with herself. With all that was going on, and she was fretting over her (sadly nonexistent) love life?

Realizing she probably wouldn't be getting to sleep anytime soon, she carefully climbed out of the bed and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly. Maybe if she had some tea, and a few of the biscuits that Mrs. Weasley had made earlier today. Unless Ron had beaten her to it. Doing her best to avoid the creaky spots on the steps, she was surprised to find a light still on, coming from the sitting room. Peeking around the corner, she found Ron's mother, sitting on the sofa in an old patchwork dressing gown, flipping through the pages of a worn, leatherbound book. Not wanting to disturb her, Hermione tried to be as quiet as she could, but years of motherhood had honed the older woman's senses when it came to young people sneaking around the house.

She looked up with a stern expression, but relaxed when she saw it was Hermione. "Hello, dear. I was afraid you were Ron, coming down to finish off the biscuits. Having trouble sleeping?"

Deciding it best not to mention that she had been intending to raid the pantry herself, Hermione merely nodded.

"Well, join me in here; I've made tea, and I brought an extra cup, but Arthur is dead to the world."

Hoping to avoid the topic of her parents, she sat down on the sofa cushion that Mrs. Weasley had patted, and saw that rather than a book, it was a photo album that was being examined. On the page in front of her were several photos, ranging back years before she was born. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked much younger, and Hermione guessed that the little boy running back and forth between them was Bill.

Noticing her interest, Mrs. Weasley handed her a cup of tea and explained, "I know it's ridiculously sentimental, but what with the wedding and all, I just couldn't resist looking through these old pictures. It's strange, seeing how young I looked back then."

She did look surprisingly young; she had never been a thin woman, but back then, she was quite curvy, rather than heavy set, and there weren't nearly as many worry lines on her face. Hermione supposed that came with raising seven children, and she doubted whether she would have held up as well.

"Bill was very cute when he was little," she said, for want of anything better.

Mrs. Weasley grinned at her conspiratorially, pulling another album from her side. "He was, but I suspect you'd be more interested in the contents of this particular album."

Puzzled, she accepted it, flipping open to the first page. She gave a delighted little squeak; Mrs. Weasley was still in the picture, looking older and a great deal more harried; three boys were on the edges of the picture, paying attention to something out of sight. Two toddlers sat in the middle of the floor, grinning up at the camera, a baby propped up between them.

"Oh my goodness, that's Ron!"

"It is indeed. He was such a quiet baby, which, as you can imagine, was such a blessing after the twins."

Turning a page, Hermione found a slightly older Ron, a huge smile on his face, chocolate pudding spread from ear to ear. Hermione couldn't help laughing, and Mrs. Weasley joined in.

"That was before he had quite figured out exactly where food was supposed to go; but he was a quick learner!"

"I know, believe me. I've seen him on feast days at Hogwarts."

The next page showed a five year old Ron, running around outside completely starkers. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, knowing he would be mortified if he knew she was seeing this.

"Oops, forgot about that one; oh well, you were bound to see it sometime," at Hermione's startled look, she raised an eyebrow and added, "To see the picture, I mean."

"Of course."

" _Hmmm."_

Quickly moving on, with one last snicker at his little dimpled butt, she found the next one showed him fully clothed.

In a dress.

It was obviously an old one of Molly's, and a similarly clad Ginny was standing next to him, holding a toy teapot. Ron's dress was a garish purple, and with it he wore a large yellow hat, red shoes, and an ugly floral purse.

"Fred and George must have given him so much grief over that," she mused, privately thinking that it wasn't much worse than the dress robes he had worn in fourth year.

"You think so?" Mrs. Weasley said dryly. "Have a look at the next one."

She did, and watched as the two older boys stripped Ron. Fred put on the dress, while George took the hat, shoes, and purse.

"They said purple wasn't his color, and he didn't know how to match his colors."

The younger Ron pouted, clearly irritated.

"Well, he'll never make that mistake again. He's had plenty of lessons in fashion this year," Hermione said, unable to conceal the lingering bitterness.

Mrs. Weasley was silent a moment, regarding her thoughtfully. "You know, in fifth year, Arthur threw me over for a little blonde floozy."

Hermione looked up from the album, shocked.

"Oh yes, he did. He claimed that I was too overbearing and critical, and he wanted someone that 'understood him.' It broke my heart, but it didn't last long. She was completely unsuitable for him, and he finally realized that she might fawn all over him, but she couldn't be counted on when things got a little hard."

"And you took him back? Even after all that?" Hermione couldn't help asking, knowing she had basically done the same thing.

Mrs. Weasley took a sip of her tea. "I loved him. I was hurt, and angry, but that didn't change the fact that I loved him. And more than that, I think it was what we needed. He learned that while I might seem harsh, I tell him the things he needs to hear, and I'll support him when others try to tear him down. He can count on me. And I learned that sometimes a gentle approach is best, and to not hide my softer feelings from him so much."

Hermione pondered the wisdom of that. Perhaps there was something to what she was saying. She loved Ron, but she always held part of herself away, afraid of being hurt. But in the end, hadn't that just ended up with her getting hurt anyway? She wasn't very good at what Mrs. Weasley referred to as the 'softer feelings,' at least when it came to expressing them. But maybe Ron, like his father, needed to hear those things more often. Of course, even if she put in the effort, he still might never feel the same way she did. But as she flipped through the pages, she decided that she couldn't worry about that. She would focus on doing her part, without expecting something in return. If he reciprocated, that would be wonderful; if he didn't...well, he just didn't, but there was nothing wrong with treating your best friend as well as you possibly could.

Molly watched as the girl poured over pictures of her youngest son, holding her cup to hide her smile. She had always thought that Hermione was an excellent girl; smart, responsible, and caring, with enough inner strength to hold her own. She could be stubborn and cutting with her words, but that could be tempered with time and experience. But what pleased her most was the tender look on Hermione's face as she absently stroked one of the pictures, speaking volumes about the feelings she held for the young man that little boy would grow up to be.

And she knew those feelings were returned. She had seen it in the raging jealousy of his fourth year, the yearning glances of his fifth, and the acting out, followed by remorse and hopelessness of last year. She had seen the way he watched Hermione when he thought no one was looking; it reminded her, with a pang, of the way Arthur looked at her. They weren't there yet, and they obviously had some issues to work out, but she could see quite clearly where things were going. Give it a year, maybe two.

She was going to have to tell Arthur to get another spoon ready for the clock.


	13. Steady Flames (K+)

**Prompt: Summer transitioning into autumn**

They are young, and people are waiting for them to fall apart. Not mentally, emotionally, or physically (though Merlin knows that they have enough reason to), but romantically. They are told that they are too young, too inexperienced; they haven't seen enough to know _what_ they want. This is said by people who don't know them, who don't know that they have seen far more in seven years than most ever will in a lifetime. They have been to the edge of death and back; they have fought battles beyond their years, and lost those near and dear to them. Pain and suffering has been etched into their skin, and it's sunk in a hell of a lot deeper than anyone can see, or judge.

They don't listen. Not because they are particularly rebellious,or think that they have all the answers. But they do know that they have been through nine kinds of hell, and they've always been able to count on each other. And even when they lost that, they managed to find it again while they were starving, tortured, and very nearly killed. Most people can't even get over an argument half so serious in the comfort of their own home, so they figured they must have a halfway decent shot at making this work. So they choose to live and love while the sun is shining.

It is summer, the season of fiery heat; of ice cream and swimming in ponds, of picnics and walking through the grass as it tickles your bare feet. It's lying out under the stars at night, enjoying the breeze as fireflies blink in and out of sight. It's hot and passionate and everything young love is supposed(ly) to be, and most burn out before the season is over.

They don't.

It's autumn now, in more ways than one. People are still expecting them to break apart, and seem almost disappointed that their predictions haven't come to pass. They are told that the passion is over (both smirk at this, and exchange looks saying that this is the first they've heard of it), and they will tire of each other in the coolness. They say that he will hate that her breasts don't sit quite as high as they used to (So? They still feel perfect in his hands), and her thighs aren't as slender as in her youth (maybe not, but they still spread to accept and embrace him every time they come together.) They say that she won't be attracted to his slightly receding hairline (very slightly, and it's still that fiery Weasley red she loves, and still as endearing when it flops over his eyes) and while he's by no means fat, there is a little extra around his hips (What's wrong with that? Easier to hold him close, and he still shudders when she nips his hipbone).

The excitement of discovery may be gone, but the peace of acceptance has replaced it. Insecurities have passed through the fire into surety, and they are happier in their confidence, which makes them freer in their ability to love and be loved. They understand, as their detractors do not, That good fires do not burn white-hot; they burn at a lower temperature, steady and true. They haven't lost anything they had before. They've merely passed into a new phase. They've lived and learned, and mastered the art of heat without the painful burn.

Autumn is not summer, and it's unfair to compare the two. It's easy to forget, when you're mourning what has passed, and easy to miss out on the present. If you long for summer too much, you will forget that this is the time for cozy sweaters and jackets, and carving pumpkins. For cuddling on the sofa with hot chocolate and cider, and roasting marshmallows over bonfires. It is a peaceful time when the raging wildfire has been tamed to fit a beneficial hearth. And mostly, for Ron and Hermione, it is a season of reds and browns, mixing together in a riotous harmony of color. This is their season, as was the one before it. They will adapt, and enjoy what they have, instead of trying to recapture the past.

This is autumn, and they choose to live and love while the leaves are turning.


	14. (Mostly) Innocent (T)

**A.N. Sorry things are going slowly! Preparing for the holidays, and taking care of my dad after he broke his back are cutting into my writing/posting. Progress is being made, though!**

**Prompt: Young Rose catches Ron and Hermione in the act, and asks George what they're doing.**

The daughter of Ron and Hermione, one Rose Weasley, was unsurprisingly precocious. Ron knew it the moment that he found her cuddling a story book rather than her teddy bear; it both delighted and frightened him. Delighted, because it was something she shared with Hermione, and he knew it would help her later in life. Frightened, because he knew that Weasleys who thought too much could get into the worst possible scrapes. When people thought of thinkers, they thought of people like Percy. And while that was mostly true, It had to be pointed out that Fred and George were also thinkers. For a man who had blithely assumed he had put his years of distrustfully tasting his food for gags that might turn him furred or feathered, the prospect was rather daunting.

But so far, at the age of five, Rose seemed to share her mother's penchant for good behavior, which was excellent since three year old Hugo appeared to have other ideas. Having two children with such contrasting personalities could sometimes wear you out, and made moments to find together more difficult than had it only been the two of them. And while they tried to be careful, they would sometimes get too caught up in each other (and, less romantically, hurrying so the children wouldn't be unsupervised for long), and when that happened, doors were not always shut and Warded properly...

Which was how, one fine summer morning at a family get-together at the Burrow, Rose came to be standing outside of her dad's old room, peering in through the crack. She couldn't see Mummy very well; just one of her legs. Daddy was leaning over her, and they were making odd sounds, almost like the two dogs from down the street would whenever they got into a small fight. They didn't look like they were wearing clothes, and Rose was worried. Mummy didn't like getting her clothes mussed while they were out. She had come upstairs to ask if she could have some of the biscuits that Grammy had offered her, but she thought now that she had better wait. Quietly, she went down one flight of stairs, waiting patiently on the top step.

George, who had been looking for Ron to even out the Quidditch teams, found her there only five minutes later. He came to a halt, surprised. All of the kids usually stuck together when they were all at the Burrow, and when Rose wasn't with them, she had a book. Now here she sat, her knobby little knees poking out from the flowered sundress she was wearing, with a look of solemn contemplation on her face.

"Hey there, Rosie. Seen your dad around? And why aren't you off with the others?"

"Yes, he's upstairs with Mommy. Uncle George? Why do grownups like to play naked?"

For one of what was only a handful of times in his life, George was shocked into speechlessness. He wanted to backtrack his way downstairs, and pretend that his five year old niece had not just asked him to explain why his randy wanker of a brother and his wife were boinking like Pygmy Puffs in the springtime. What did you say in this situation? 'Congratulations, you've been scarred like the rest of us?' That joke would work in ten years time, but even he wasn't crass enough to say that to a child small enough that he still gave piggybacks to!

...On the other hand, he thought with a smirk, it shouldn't be too hard to tell her something completely innocent, but would come across as full of innuendos when heard by adults. His mind working at lightning speeds to concoct a story, he stared down at her, smiled, and...couldn't do it.

She was looking up at him with wide, innocent brown eyes full of trust. Every second he looked at her, they seemed to grow a bit larger. Hell, they practically took up her whole face! Besides, Angelina would have his bits for earrings if she found out what he did, which would put more than a damper on the plans he had for later tonight. Rose was still staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He began to sweat. He had to tell her _something!_ But he had thought that the painfully awkward sex talk was years down the line, and not with someone else's kid.

Someone else's kid.

That was true, wasn't it? How could he rob dear, dear Ronniekins of this special moment with his daughter? He couldn't do that; then he would never get to enjoy the show of watching him prepare for it, the same way he had right before he proposed to Hermione.

"Do you think you could forget that question if you had a biscuit?"

Rose tilted her head, her red curls bouncing around her shoulders as she pondered his question.

"Two biscuits? Because I just thought of another question."

"Three biscuits."

Rose nodded happily, and George sighed, taking her hand to lead her back downstairs. He shot a small glare at the ceiling, deciding that Ron was going to have to pay somehow for putting him in this situation.

He never noticed the slight smile on Rose's face, or the giggle that she muffled behind her other hand. Silly Uncle George. She was a big girl; did he really think she didn't know about that? She had been scared the first time she saw it, but then her parents had explained that mummies and daddies had to do a special spell sometimes where no one else was allowed. Mummy told her she didn't have to worry about it until she came of age, but Daddy had yelled funny and said she didn't need to worry about it ever. So she was still a little confused, but that was okay. Because James had been trying to tell her that _no one_ could trick Uncle George. But she had just done that, and was getting three biscuits out of it, so what did _James_ know?

George parked her at the kitchen table, summoning a plate to put her biscuits on. She was munching happily away on her second when her parents came in, Hermione smoothing out her hair (like _that_ was going to happen) and Ron trying to discretely tuck in the back of his shirt.

"Rose, you know you're supposed to ask first before you have a snack," Hermione admonished.

George inserted himself into the conversation, stepping over and pulling them across the room from the child. "She did, but you were a bit _preoccupied._ Merlin, you two, can't you keep it in? You act like it's your first summer together, and you've very nearly scarred your daughter for life! _At a family gathering!"_

Both of them stared at him in shock, and he groaned, rubbing his face with one hand. "Great. Me as the voice of reason. If you need me, I'll be looking up the _other_ signs of the end of the world while you try to find something safe to tell her."

Hermione traded a look with Ron, but kept her voice low. Everyone was supposed to be outside, but you never could tell, around here. "George, what are you talking about? I hate to say it, but this isn't the first time it's happened. We've already talked to her about it, and will explain more once she's an appropriate age for details."

George made a face. "Please, I don't think _I'm_ an appropriate age for details, at least not any concerning the two of you. It was bad enough always tripping over you in the supply room of the shop. And the broom shed. And the orchard. Actually, we could just make a BINGO card of places you're likely to be caught, and offer a prize to the family member that finishes first. And I don't think you were clear enough, because she was asking me to explain it to her!"

"Rose, did you ask Uncle George a question you already knew the answer to?" Ron asked her seriously, suddenly suspicious of the angelic look she was wearing.

She licked the crumbs from her mouth nervously, realizing she had been caught. "Yeeeeeeees."

"And why did you do that?"

"James told me that he couldn't get Uncle George to fall for a prank, and he said I couldn't do it, either!" Rose burst out, her eyes flashing with indignation. "But James is stupid, because it wasn't even hard!"

"Rose, go back outside and play with your cousins. And we don't call people stupid, remember?" Hermione ordered, knowing that they would have to have a talk tonight about the difference between a joke and an outright lie.

Rose slid out of the chair and left by the kitchen door, leaving George staring after her in disbelief, while Ron choked on badly suppressed laughter. George gave himself a brisk shake, ignoring Ron as he began to laugh harder.

"I've just been taken in by a five year old. Alright. I can take that. Obviously it's time to pack it in and retire, before I lose it completely. If you'll excuse me, I'll be outside under the big oak tree having a midlife crisis," George mumbled to himself, wandering outside as well.

Hermione glared at Ron, "I don't know why you're laughing; it's really not that funny."

Ron tried to stand upright, but leaned back onto the counter, wheezing. "Not funny? _Not funny?_ Did you see the look on his face?"

"Yes, Ron. I saw the look on his face when _our five year old tricked a thirty-three year old prank master."_

The implications of what this could mean hit Ron with full force. If she was that smooth at five, what could she get up to in a few years' time? How long would he be able to keep up? Would he have to have Crookshanks start testing his food for any fun little surprises? They wouldn't get a break until...

"How many years until Hogwarts?" he asked his wife in a weak voice.

"Six. Six years. What do you propose we do about this? She's a good girl, really, but we're going to have to keep more of an eye on her."

Yes, they would. And Ron knew exactly what he needed to do.

First thing tomorrow, he was going to Hogwarts to discuss the benefits of an early admissions program.


	15. This Creeping Fear (K+)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione's biggest fight as an engaged couple.**

Ron tossed his Tactics and Strategies textbook onto the coffee table along with his other books and notes, bringing his fingers up to rub at his straining eyes. He had been revising all day, with only two short breaks, hoping to take the evening off to spend some time with Hermione. Tonight was the first night in a week that she hadn't had to stay late at the Ministry for meetings, and he had hoped that they could spend a quiet evening together without talking about work or his upcoming Auror exams. He had a nicer outfit laid out in the bedroom in case she wanted to go out for dinner, otherwise, he was going to suggest that they order in. He was too tired to cook, and he knew she would be, too.

Long arms stretched up over his head, and he gave a loud, moaning yawn as he popped his neck. Crookshanks came to stand in the doorway, giving out a long, demanding yowl. Ron stood to go see what the cat wanted, knowing he wouldn't get any peace if he tried to ignore him.

"You know I can't give you a snack. If I get caught, Hermione'll cut me off, in a more serious way."

Crookshanks glared at him, but walked over and tapped his water bowl, showing that it was empty.

"Ah. I guess even if you have to starve, you might not want to add dehydration to the list."

He picked up the ceramic blue bowl and filled it up in the sink, careful not to spill it when he set the bowl back down. He knew from painful experience how slick the kitchen floor was when it was wet, and he couldn't afford to be injured with his fitness tests coming up.

"Ron? Are you home?" Hermione's voice came from the living room.

Leaving Crookshanks facedown in his bowl, he wiped his hands on his trousers and joined her in the living room, where she was taking off her outer robes to toss over a chair. He raised his eyebrows at this. Hermione almost always hung her things up neatly the moment she took them off. If the circles under her eyes were any indication, the problems at work were getting to her more than she was letting on. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, tugging her hand as he sprawled onto the sofa.

"I've been here all day. How about you? Rough time today?" He asked sympathetically.

"Very, but I don't particularly want to talk about it yet. Otherwise, I might be tempted to Floo back and give them a piece of my mind."

Hm. So far, her mood wasn't exactly conducive to the kind of evening he had had in mind. Luckily, he had picked up enough tricks over the years...

Hermione let out a low groan as long, practiced fingers massaged the tightened muscles in her neck. Ron suppressed a smug grin when she tilted her head, her eyelids fluttering closed.

"That feel good?"

" _Mmmmmmm."_

"I'll take that as a yes. Does it feel good enough to slip into that dress you haven't gotten a chance to wear, and find somewhere nice to eat, or would you rather go straight to the pajamas while I run out and pick something up?"

She looked at him gratefully. "Both sound so lovely that it's hard to decide." Her expression shifted as her eyes landed on his books spread out on the table. "Better make it a night in. I don't think we should be going out for awhile."

There was a strange tone to her voice, one that had been getting stronger in the past several weeks. He was confused. They didn't go anywhere special all that much, and they had managed to save up a decent amount, even with the costs of the wedding in four months.

"Are you sure? I was sort of hoping to try the porkchops at that one place we went to with your parents awhile back."

Hermione pushed his hand away, and the smile she gave him was brittle. "There will be plenty of time to try those later. Right now, there are more important things that should be on your mind."

He knew it was a bad idea, and not at all what she meant, but he was beginning to feel out of his depth, and wanted to lighten the mood. So he put his arm around her, and gave her a leer.

"So, skipping right to the pajama part, are we?"

She shot to her feet, as if she couldn't stand to have him close. He tried not to let her see that it had hurt him, but he could feel his own temper starting to rise.

"Look, I just think it would be better if you spent the evening actually studying, alright? Your exams are coming up and you can't afford to slack off this time."

That just about tore it. How could she stand there with that fake smile and basically say that he was lazy and irresponsible? Alright, so he hadn't had as much drive as her while they were at Hogwarts. And he was more easily distracted, especially if he thought of a better way to get something done. But he wasn't a kid anymore; he might joke around, and complain about having to do certain things, but he had always taken his training seriously. Aside from Hermione, Harry, and his family, being an Auror was the most important thing in his life. He had worked hard to rise to the top level in his group, and being treated as if he was a thirteen year old skiving off his Potions essay pissed him off.

"Hermione, one evening isn't going to make that much of a difference. We're both stressed out, and could use a night off."

She had been yanking on the hairclip that had been holding her hair up, and it finally came free, although not without a good chunk of thick, untamable hair. She threw it down, ignoring it when it bounced off the table and under the recliner.

"One evening could make all the difference! And I don't appreciate you trying to use me as an excuse to get out of doing your work! I'm sure you've spent most of the day with those copies of the Prophet that you're trying to hide with your notes, and don't think I don't know about how you and Harry keep sneaking off for Quidditch!" Her voice had raised in volume as well as octave, sounding just as bossy and accusing as she had in first year.

Unconsciously, he he rose to tower above her, never having been the type that could sit while someone berated him. Even though she was wearing heels, he was a good six inches taller than her, and he felt more comfortable when she wasn't looking down on him, although she still managed to give a good impression of it.

"For your information, The Prophet has been running articles about several break-ins, and there's been signs of a pattern of stealing ingredients for illegal potions. Everyone has been required to keep up with the case, because it's being used as an example in some of the lessons. And yeah, I _have_ been meeting up with Harry to play Quidditch; it might've slipped your mind, but recreational sports are part of the fitness program we have to pass."

Guilt flashed like lightning across her eyes; a brief moment of shining clarity, and then gone, as if it had never been. She drew herself up, her mouth working as she sought to find another point to argue.

"You have a pat answer for everything, don't you? Acting all mature, as if you don't still stuff your face with Chocolate Frogs, or rot your mind with those asinine comic books!" She sneered.

Ron shook his head, unable to believe she was grasping at such pathetic straws. He knew she was itching for a fight, but he found, for once, that he didn't want to give her the satisfaction. The romantic evening he had hoped for was ruined, his mood was even worse, and he his feelings, along with his pride, were hurt. He could only see things getting worse if they continued. It was time to clear his head.

"I'm not doing this, Hermione. I don't know what crawled up your arse and died, but I'm not going to stick around and let you take it out on me," he started moving in the direction of the door, to find his shoes. "If I'm not back by the time you go to bed, it means I'm staying either at Harry's or George's. I might stay a day or two, at least until you get over your shitty mood."

Hermione threw up her hands, wild look in her eyes. Her voice sounded oddly strangled and high when she said, "Fine! Fine! You just do that! Maybe it's better if you leave now; it'll save me the grief of it happening later."

Ron froze in his tracks, her words stabbing into his back like icicles. He had been angry before, but now he was furious; she had claimed to have forgiven him for that long ago, had tried to get him to quit beating himself up over it, and now she was throwing it in his face? Slowly, he turned and advanced on her, his face dark with anger. The thought of hurting her physically in any way never entered his head; He might kick a piece of furniture, or destroy a Quaffle later, but violence had never been an option when it came to her. And she knew it, because she didn't flinch away from him, or adopt any sort of defensive posture. There was no fear in her eyes; only shock at her own words.

"How dare you," he said in a low voice, somehow infinitely worse than if he had yelled, "How _dare_ you bring that up over something so fucking petty. Is this your idea of forgiveness? Taking the one thing you know I regret most, the thing that _I have dedicated my fucking life to make up for,_ and throw it in my face the moment it suits you? I know you have a nasty streak when you're mad, just like I do; but I never thought you'd sink that low."

He turned away, unable to bear it anymore. He was halfway across the room when she sobbed out, "That's not how I meant it!"

Spinning around, he glared at her. "How else could you mean me leaving you? It seemed clear enough to me."

Her face was a mess; red, and already swelling around the eyes from crying so violently. A distant part of him was alarmed at the sudden intensity, but he brushed it aside for now.

"I n-never thought you'd l-leave me alive!" She wailed, her words coming out garbled.

At her words, his mouth hung open; she wasn't making any sense, and he was starting to worry now that there was something seriously wrong. "Hermione? What are you on about?"

"You're going to be an Auror!"

She had said it as if that made complete sense; it didn't, but Ron was learning all about taking statements and collecting evidence, so he forced himself to try to pry the rest out of her.

"Yeah, I am; but what does that have to do with anything?"

Her hair swung across her face as she began to pace. "It has everything to do with it! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be an Auror? Even on some of the simpler cases, there have been incidents where things go fatally wrong!"

Some of the blood left his head at her words, a light beginning to glimmer. "Of course I know that. For one thing, it's one of the first facts they drill into you. It's not like when I was in fourth year. I've had enough so-called 'glory' for a lifetime, and there's nothing adventurous or romantic about the job. But...you're doing your part to make the world a better place, Hermione. You're making and changing laws, and forcing people to challenge dated ways of thinking. I want to do my part too, but that isn't my way. I'm not good at all of that. But I _am_ good at what I do. I thought you understood that. Are...are you trying to tell me that you don't want me to be an Auror?"

The idea hit him hard. She had always seemed accepting of his choice before; proud, even. He wasn't sure what he would do if that's what she was saying; he couldn't imagine himself doing anything else, at least, not at this point in his life. He had trained so hard, and he couldn't grasp the idea of throwing it all away. If he had to make a choice...well, he would choose her, but it would break something inside of him.

"Of course I want you to be an Auror!" She snapped, as if any idea to the contrary was unthinkable. "You're going to be one of the most brilliant Aurors they've ever had!"

Air returned to his lungs. "Then why...?"

She ran both hands through her hair, and he could see that they were shaking.

"Because I'm afraid. I'm terrified that one day, Harry or some other Auror is going to show up with that sad, pitying look in their eyes, and tell me that you're not coming home. I know what it's like to think that you're never coming back to me, Ron; I don't know if I can go through that again," she held up her hand at the protesting look he wore, "I'm not blaming you for the past. I forgave you for that ages ago, and I'm not throwing it in your face. I know that anything like that would only happen out of your control. I thought I had prepared myself, that I would be alright. But the closer you get to taking your exams, the more real it gets, and I panic. I know how hard you've worked, but sometimes I lie awake and worry that the one thing you've missed in your revisions is going to be the thing that could save you on a mission. I know that this is what you've always wanted to do; what you're _meant_ to do. But I'm afraid, and I hate myself for feeling so weak and selfish."

Hermione wasn't sure how she had expected him to react to that, but it wasn't to find herself suddenly pulled against his chest, long arms wrapped tightly around her with his chin resting on her head.

"You know, for a supposedly brilliant witch, you can be bloody stupid at times," he stated conversationally, in the same tone he would use to ask her to pass the jam.

"It's not weak and selfish to worry about the people you love. Hell, I'd be more upset if you just let me go off without any kind of concern! Besides, worrying has always sort of been your thing, you know? Reading and worrying, ever since we were eleven. And it's not like I'm not scared, too. I've seen what can happen on a mission that goes bad. Where you went wrong was not just coming out and _telling_ me what was on your mind. I can't change how dangerous my job is going to be, but that doesn't mean you have to go through all this by yourself."

Hermione clutched at his shirt. "I'm sorry, Ron. I said such horrible things, even if some of them were implied without me meaning what they sounded like. I just...I suppose it isn't something that you just get over and never think about it again."

Ron rubbed her back, ignoring the increasingly large wet patch on the front of his shirt.

"I don't reckon it is. And there's nothing to say it should be. But maybe...ease up on yourself, and try not to bottle it up until you explode, yeah?"

He felt her nod, snuffling against his chest. He winced a little, fully aware that not all of the moisture he was feeling was due to tears. But he didn't let go; she needed to cry, and he was feeling a bit watery himself. He should've known better, really. The whole thing hadn't made much sense, but he had just had a hard time thinking beyond the pain of the moment to realize there was something deeper going on.

Once her crying had subsided, he pulled away enough that he could look down into her face.

"Look, I'll tell you what; we don't have to go out tonight-"

"Oh Ron, I'm sorry...you had something planned, didn't you? I didn't mean to lose control like this. Give me a few minutes, and I can get ready."

She tried to move from his embrace, but he held firm. "No. Your mum bought that dress for you to have for a special occasion, so let's save it for when we celebrate passing my exams. Tonight, you crawl into those hideous purple pajamas you love, I'll go out and grab some food, and we can eat in bed and make up for the shit start we got off to tonight."

Relaxing, seeing he wasn't upset anymore, she nodded. "That sounds perfect. And tomorrow, I'll fix that fried chicken that your mum showed me how to make," she offered, knowing that she was going to have to work on how she expressed her fears, but still wanting to offer a tangible token of apology.

"Brilliant!" He grinned, seeing her effort and appreciating it. "If I leave now, that should give you enough time to take a bath before you change."

He kissed her on a still moist cheek, and walked to the door, checking his wallet to make sure he had enough Muggle money.

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

"I really am sorry, and I'll try to do better; I honestly don't know how you put up with me sometimes."

Smirking, his eyes lit up with mischief. "No worries. You just need to work on expanding your emotional range, like mine."

Smiling a real smile for the first time that night, Hermione watched him leave. And made the decision, in her heart, that while Ron might very well have to face incredible danger in his line of work, she was never going to let her own fears drive them apart. He was meant to be an Auror, but he was also meant to be her husband, and the father of her children. From now on, she would try to stop dwelling on the thought of him leaving, and instead focus on the thought of him coming back. Because anything else was unacceptable.

Ron will leave.

But Ron will come _back._


	16. Suspicious Minds (T)

**Prompt: Mrs. Weasley or Hermione's parents catch them in a compromising position**

Molly Weasley placed the last folded shirt from her sixth load of laundry of the day into her basket, and began the long treck up to Ron's room, moving stealthily as only a mother can. While still grieving over the loss of one of her children, she had surfaced enough from her black depression to start taking more of a notice of her surroundings in the past week, and the fact that Ron had finally (praise Merlin) worked things out and was now in a relationship with Hermione. Molly loved Hermione as if she was one of her own, and thought that she was an excellent match for her boy. She wanted them, especially after after the horrors and heartache of the last few years, to be happy.

But not _too_ happy.

She had seen Harry and Ginny carrying a Quaffle outside, but she was equally sure that Ron and Hermione had been conspicuously absent. While she knew they were both over the age of consent, this was still her house, and her rules; she would respect them by giving them a few minutes of privacy, but assert her authority by interrupting them anyway.

Stepping onto Ron's floor, she tiptoed over to the door, unable to resist trying to catch what they were saying, since she could already clearly hear their voices.

Ron, You're being too rough! That's far too large to fit in there like that!" Hermione said in exasperation.

"I can't very well help the size, now can I? You should've accounted for that on your end. If you just...hold...still," Ron grunted, the sounds of the bed springs bouncing accompanying his voice.

"Stop! You can't just jam it straight in; you have to ease it in slowly, from an angle."

At her bossy tone, Ron snapped back, "Well since you've _obviously_ had so much more experience at this than me, maybe you should just do it yourself!"

After about the third or fourth heart attack Molly had while standing there, a range of emotions passed through her; anger, shock, surprise, horror at her son's lack of sensitivity, and finally back to anger. Like a bull charging a red cloth, she burst through the door, nostrils flaring.

"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU HAD BETTER-" she nearly choked on her own shout, spluttering to a stop when she finally registered the two wide eyed eighteen year olds sitting on his bed, fully clothed, with a large box in between them. The wind was taken out of her sails, and she felt a bit foolish; it was obvious now that the two of them had stayed behind to wrap Harry's birthday present, a broom to replace his old one.

"...You had better put these clothes away, after I carried them all the way up here," she finished, setting the basket on top of his dresser.

She smiled weakly at Hermione. Dear, level-headed, rule abiding Hermione. A sensible girl that was certain to make sure things didn't go farther than they should. She knew that, just as she knew Ron would never treat a girl like that in the situation she had imagined was occurring. Obviously, raising the twins had made her overly suspicious. The thought reminded her of Fred, and, feeling a bit weepy, she reminded them that dinner would be a little later that night, before hastily leaving the room.

Ron, mouth gaping in confusion at his mum's abrupt entrance and subsequent change in mood, looked to Hermione. "What was that all about? I thought she was getting ready to peel my ears back!"

Hermione stared at the door thoughtfully, before her lips finally twitched in amusement. "I believe your mum let her imagination get away from her in a particularly... _vivid_ manner, and it embarrassed her when she saw she was wrong about what we were doing."

This didn't seem to make sense to him. "What are you on about? Mum's always suspicious, but the worst thing about it is, she's usually right. But all we were doing was wrapping Harry's present."

She fell to her side, laughing into the hand she had placed over her mouth. "Yes...pfft, I know, but I think she heard what we were saying, added two and two, and got six."

Ron, being fairly quick on the uptake, and after having spent six years in a boys dorm, and a lifetime with five older brothers, latched on to what had happened.

"No wonder she swooped in here like a Howler in human form! What a filthy mind!" He laughed, grinning.

Hermione smacked his leg. "Be kind! We both knew she would be sensitive to any impropriety going on under her roof," she reproved him primly.

He leaned over her, grinning wickedly. "Listen to you, then! That's not how you sounded down at the pond last night, with your knickers down and your ankles wrapped around my-"

"That wasn't under her roof, so it doesn't count," she answered, blushing.

Nuzzling her neck, he kissed the skin just below her ear. "What say we grab the blanket, and head outside?"

She was tempted, but shook her head regretfully. "Harry and Ginny are already out on the pitch, and they can see us from there."

Ron's shoulders slumped, but then he brightened. "Have I ever shown you the old treehouse out in the woods that we built when we were kids?"

Hermione's pleased smile matched his. "No, but I think right now would be the perfect time to go have a look."

Broom forgotten, the pair left the room, looking forward to a pleasant afternoon. And it would have been quite pleasant if Ginny had not had the same idea as her brother, but that is an encounter best lost to the mists of time.


	17. Knock Before Entering (M)

**Prompt: Molly catches a newly married Ron and Hermione messing around in their flat, when they should be at work.**

There is something about newly wedded bliss that makes people a little mad. During that period, the sun seems to shine brighter, smiles seem to come easier, and clothes seem to be the most unnecessary things in the world. And you know that it won't completely last; there will be mornings where you oversleep the alarm, and the boss grumbles at you for arriving late. There will be rows about whose turn it is to clean out the cat box (' _Honestly, all you have to do is flick your wand!' 'If it's so easy, then why don't you do it? He's your bloody cat!')._ And there will be the sound of the love of your life being sick all over the floor, and then proceeding to crawl into bed with you _and breath into your space._ But this feeling doesn't entirely go away, either, if you're determined to hang onto it, and you decide that you're going to make this initial burst last as long as possible.

Along with walking on air, and going about with expressions that advertise you as having the mental capacity of a Flobberworm, you are inclined to take giddy risks. Ideas that you would normally not even enter your head become reality as the pair of you giggle together like eight year old girls at a sleepover. There is a part of you that knows you are being foolish and embarrassing, but you can't seem to care, because you're just so damn _happy._

And this explains why, after nearly three weeks of marriage, and having just moved into their own flat, Ron and Hermione were stretched out on the sofa completely starkers, when both should have been pushing papers at their respective jobs, like the conscientious, responsible adults that they were. Ron had mostly been joking when he suggested they skive off, and had been delighted when Hermione, after a brief nibble of her lower lip (which sealed the idea that his suggestion was going to turn out to be brilliant), had said alright, and had set about sending out two hastily scribbled excuses to their departments.

That was half an hour ago, and Ron was perfectly content. There had been a passionate round on the sofa, Crookshanks was safely shut in the bedroom, and they were going to the Burrow for dinner, which he had been assured would consist of copious amounts of fried chicken and all the trimmings.

Lazily, he nuzzled his face between her breasts, his left hand reaching up to toy with a nipple, softly flicking it back and forth as it hardened under the pad of his thumb. Hermione gave a pleased, breathy sigh, threading her fingers through the longish hair on the back of his head. Her skin was still slick, and he turned his head to the side, dragging his tongue across the curve of her breast, goosebumps popping up along the trail.

"Ron, that's sweat," Hermione feebly protested.

"Hmm...yeah, but it's the good kind," he mumbled, before returning to his ministrations.

She gave a snort, but it lacked conviction, the way she gasped in the middle. "I didn't realize there was a- _oooh,_ good kind."

He let his hand skim down her body to rest between her legs, bracing himself up with his other arm.

"Sure there is; it's the kind that happens when we-"

He was just starting to line her up for a second go of it when there was a flash to their left; where once there were two people in the room, now there were three. Ron, Hermione, and Molly Weasley, in all her matronly glory. Hermione squeaked and burrowed her way under Ron, which left him scrambling for a cushion to cover himself, even if it left his pasty white arse on display in the process.

"MUM! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" He bellowed, mortified.

Mrs. Weasley blinked rapidly, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Arthur forgot to take these magazines that Hermione wanted to borrow into work this morning. I decided to pop over myself when George owled and said he had an announcement to make tonight; I thought you might want to dress up. But I suppose we'll be lucky to get you there and dressed at all."

"Well that was-you could've just...why didn't you-you're not supposed to be here!"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Neither are you, young man! Do you think I came for a show? I thought you were at work, and I was going to leave the magazines and a note. And stop messing about with that cushion; it isn't like you have anything I haven't seen a thousand times before."

His ears burned at that tone that mothers got when they were at their most supremely embarrassing. "Not recently you haven't!" he growled.

She waved the hand that held the magazines, the pages fluttering open. "Pish! You act like it's changed! Why, I remember when it was no bigger than-"

"MUM!"

Hermione was shaking under him, her face covering her hands while hiccuping laughter leaked through her fingers. He glared. Some sympathetic bride he had landed himself with.

Molly tossed the magazines onto the chair nearest her, and turned back to the fireplace. "Alright, alright! I'll leave! Just be sure to be in time for dinner. And Hermione, you'll want to wear a thick jumper; it's been a tad nippy in the evenings."

Hermione managed to nod her head, and Molly departed, while Ron muttered something about locking the Floo from now on.

"And what are you laughing at? You got to use me as a human shield!"

Wiping tears from her eyes, Hermione gasped out, "It-it was-s so awful! Just l-like being t-teenagers and getting caught in the br-broom shed!"

"Except we never got caught! In all the time we had of sneaking all over the property, never once did we get caught! And now here we are, in our nice safe flat, and she pops out of the fireplace like Father Christmas in a pinny!"

His wife struggled out from under him. "Well, I suppose she was overdue then, wasn't she? Oh, come on! It was embarrassing, but so what? We're married, and it's not like she can lecture us about it."

He hated to burst her oblivious little bubble (or not. There was no call to laugh that hard.), but Hermione hadn't noticed the pleased, fanatical smile his mother had worn when she left.

"You don't get it, do you? Didn't you think anything was off? How she took it so well, and didn't nag us for missing work? Why she was suddenly so concerned about your health?"

A frown creased her face; he tried to focus on that instead of her tits.

"Well, as I said; we're adults, we're married, and this is our flat. What can she possibly say?"

Ron groaned. "Yeah. We are, we definitely are, and it is. And what do you think the next logical step is to someone who's batty about grandchildren?"

Hermione bolted forward, clearly seeing what he was getting at. "Oh no, you don't mean-"

"I do mean. Prepare yourself for article clippings and being force fed 'fertility enhancing' foods. Just pray she doesn't try to give you any 'womanly' advice; Bill says she nearly drove Fleur mental, and she wasn't able to look at Mum and Dad for a month."

"Oh God."

"I don't think he's going to be much help."

"Ron!"

"Don't look at me; you laughed, remember?"

He took pity on her when she buried her head in her hands, her hair falling around her shoulders and blocking her face from view. This, he realized, was a cue to comfort her; he needed to think of something to soothe her and put her at ease. Gently, he put his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her to his side.

"Cheer up; there's good news in all of this."

"What?" She asked flatly, knowing how headstrong her mother-in-law could be.

"At least this will distract her from trying to teach you how to cook."

The cushion being yanked from his lap and being smacked across his head alerted him to the fact that he might have come across as less than sensitive. This was confirmed when Hermione stood in a huff, peering down her nose at him.

"That's not the kind of talk that will tempt me into picking things up where they left off before your mother appeared."

Ron glanced at his lap ruefully. "S'alright, I'm not really in the mood anymore, anyway."

She looked dumbfounded for a moment; Ron didn't turn down sex. "Well...fine, then. I'm going to go take a shower."

He sighed; so much for his perfect day. He had planned on spending it shagging, cuddling, and taking breaks for snacks; now here he was with a baby obsessed grandmother aiming to add his addition to her collection, an irritated wife, and a once alert cobra now laying like a dead basilisk in his lap.

Pouting, he watched Hermione's arse sway as she walked towards the bathroom, where she would slip into a hot shower, the water cascading over all her curves, droplets forming to drip off off her-

He stood quickly.

"Hey, Hermione? Hold up a tick..."


	18. Sights Best Unseen (T)

**Prompt: your character bungles an attempt at Apparation, and "You have no clue what you're doing, do you?"**

As was often the case, Ron wasn't sure whether he wanted to thank the twins, or set them on fire. When they had suggested that he invite Hermione to come and join him while he helped them with the stock for the shop, he had thought it was an excellent idea. After all, the book that they gave him (and which he had been revising far more thoroughly than any textbook) had said that you should find opportunities to be together with the witch you were interested in. Really, he would be able to spend most of his time with her, since he was only using his brothers as an excuse to get out of the house, and they didn't need all that much help.

So he had sent a letter off with Pig, and waited, nervously, for the reply. He had mucked things up badly last year, and he felt as if he had lost any ground he might have once had. Things had been improving near the end, and she had even let him hold her at Dumbledore's funeral. Though that might've just been the grief, and he didn't want to get his hopes up too high. But he couldn't help the triumphant grin when, that same day, he received her reply, telling him she would be there. His happiness was marred only by the fact that he could tell she was upset about something. He knew it had to do with her parents, and the fact that they were going with Harry, but she wouldn't talk about it much.

This morning, he had carefully gone over everything he had learned so far as he got dressed, hoping he could manage to get it right. If he could make it through the day, he'd be doing good; she was going home after dinner, and wouldn't be back for another two weeks to help with the wedding, and whatever they were going to do about Harry. It would be a test to see how things were between them, and what he needed to work on before she came to the Burrow.

He should have known the twins wouldn't make it easy. Really, he should have. After all, they had been a little _too_ nice lately, so it was only right that the other shoe should finally drop. It had started out innocently enough; smirks and kissy faces whenever Hermione had her back turned, then escalating into pointed remarks about his 'intellectual pursuits' (or as Fred whispered, his pursuit of intellectuals). What pissed him off was the fact that she wouldn't even notice what they were saying, if he could just control his reactions. As it was, she kept glancing at his ears, which he knew were burning brighter than his hair.

All morning, he had been able to avoid giving himself away, or acting like a prat. Fred and George were mostly busy up front, so they didn't have all that much time to harass him; it just felt like it. Following the book's instructions, he had even managed to keep a good conversation going, and Hermione had seemed more relaxed the longer she was there. Things were going well. His brothers were being mild, for them, and nothing he couldn't handle. Hermione might actually be enjoying spending time with him. So of course, things had to go to hell the moment they closed for lunch.

He didn't know how they managed it, but Fred and George had worked the conversation around to Apparating, and his need to practice. Which was perfectly true, but their timing was bloody awful.

George went to the till, and pulled out a few Galleons, and put them in a small bag, which he tossed to Ron.

"Why don't you go get us some sandwiches? Or fish and chips, whichever you'd rather."

Ron pocketed the money; he might not be thrilled to be an errand boy, but his stomach told him to shut up and get a move on.

"Alright, I'll be back in a tick. You want to come, Hermione?" He asked, coming from behind the shelves to head for the door.

Hermione stood from the small stool where she had been seated, checking off inventory lists, but Fred waved her back.

"What were we just talking about, Ron? Here we are, giving you a perfect chance to practice, and you're just going to waste it?"

Ignoring the warning bells that were beginning to jangle in the back of his mind, he asked, "Practice? Practice what?"

George shook his head, pityingly. "Fearful memory retention, Ron. Apparating! You need to practice Apparating!"

Hermione piped up, her voice laced with disapproval. "You know it's illegal for him to Apparate without a license. He could get in serious trouble."

For some reason, that suddenly made him want to give it a go; he hadn't looked too good back at Hogwarts during his exam.

"C'mon, Hermione; it's only illegal if he gets caught, and no one makes a big deal about it, anyway. Besides, how is he supposed to learn if he doesn't practice?"

"Yeah, he's right, Hermione. It's just down the street, it's not like I'll be Apparating across the city, or anything." He argued, a small part of him wondering how they always managed to talk him into things like this.

"Well, I'm not sure...you have no clue what you're doing, do you?"

That stung. "Of course I do! I nearly passed, didn't I? It was only a bit of eyebrow; could've happened to anyone, you said so yourself!"

There wasn't much she could say to that, though he could tell she wanted to.

"Alright, but don't come running back to me if you Splinch your legs off."

He tightened his jaw, determined not to retort; he didn't want to fight, and he hoped that maybe this would impress her. Standing in the middle of the shop, he prepared himself, wiping his palms on his trousers to dry them. After a few minutes, George cleared his throat.

"Um, Ron? It might help if you actually had your wand out."

He flushed. "I know that! I was just making sure I was ready!"

Ignoring the muffled snorts of laughter, he took his wand from his pocket, concentrated, sent a quick prayer to whoever was listening, and-

With a crack, he felt his body twisting and turning, and for one brief moment, he panicked. His panic grew when he finally came to a stop, but still couldn't see. Realizing he would be in a lot more pain if he had, in fact, Splinched his eyeballs as he had feared, he calmed down enough to push the thin, soft material away that had been covering his face.

And immediately wished he hadn't.

Standing smack dab in front of him was a woman that had to be as ancient as his Aunt Muriel; the main difference between the two was that Ron had always seen his aunt completely clothed, while this woman was...not. For what seemed like an eternity, the pair stared at one another in open mouthed horror. The woman suddenly came to her senses, and with a speed and strength belying her age, she pulled back her arm to deliver him a stinging slap to the face. This caused him to reel to the side, tripping and falling into a mass of undergarments that were hanging from hooks on the wall, of what his mind (unhelpfully) informed him was a changing room.

Her scream spurred him to Apparate without really thinking, and he struggled to breathe as he was pulled into the nothingness once again. He heard himself whimpering when he finally came to a halt, and he slumped to the floor when he recognized the shop. The twins and Hermione had run over to stand over him, and their expressions of concern quickly changed. Hermione looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or be furious, while Fred and George, naturally, looked highly amused about something.

"Looks like someone had a good trip, eh, Fred?"

"A bit quick though, but I suppose that's to be expected."

Hermione pushed them both out of the way. "Shut up, you two! Can't you see that something went wrong?" She narrowed her eyes at him, nostrils slightly flaring. "Or, rather, it had _better_ have gone wrong."

He opened his mouth, but it took him several tries before he could finally push the words out of his throat. "Landed wrong...a lady...naked..."

"Merlin, Ron! We sent you for sandwiches, not a bit of dessert!" Fred whooped.

"She was as old as Aunt Muriel!" He wailed, his voice cracking as the scene flashed across his mind once again. "Maybe even older! I don't think I'll ever feel clean again!"

This made his brothers recoil, and they shuddered in sympathy. "Want us to Obliviate you, then?" George asked, taking pity on him.

"You can't do that, he has to go back." Hermione pronounced firmly, and all three of them stared at her as if she had declared her undying love for Snape.

"Hermione, even _we're_ not cruel enough to make him go back into that!" Fred, said, aghast.

"Yeah, don't you think once was enough? By the looks of him, he's got a brand new Boggart that'll beat out spiders by a longshot."

Ron gazed up at her pathetically. Why would she want to make him go through that again? The book didn't cover anything like this!

Bending down, she plucked a few things off of his shoulders and his left ear, only now drawing his attention to their presence. Dangling from her fingers, in all their lacy glory, were two bras, and a pair of knickers that looked far too small to cover the expanse of real estate that they were meant to.

"Bloody hell, one cup is as big as my head!" He marvelled in sick fascination.

"Charming, Ron. Still, you have to go back. This one and the...um...knickers...still have tags on, so that would be stealing. And this one doesn't have any tags, so that probably means that it belongs to that poor woman you Apparated in on."

He crab walked backwards, away from the offending garments. "No! I'm not going back! What if she's turned me in as some sort of pervert?"

"Oh, alright! I'll do it myself; do you at least have any idea where you were?" She huffed.

Ron thought a second, leaning his back against the counter. "Uh, I can't be sure, but there was a lot of mauve and gold."

Hermione nodded. "I think I know the place. I'll be back soon."

She turned on the spot, and Ron watched her go thankfully.

"Mauve? Since when do you know words like 'mauve'? Fred asked skeptically.

"Side effect of dating Lavender. I was happy only knowing the six basic colors, but now I know enough to be able to coordinate perfect outfits, so my purse will always match my shoes. Can we not talk about that, please?" He said grumpily, privately thinking that they could use a little fashion knowledge themselves.

"You've had enough for one day, so we'll save it for another time," George answered graciously.

"Cheers. While we're on the subject, how about laying off me while Hermione's here? I'm trying to regain some ground, if you hadn't noticed, and you're not exactly helping."

Fred heaved a sigh. "That's _exactly_ what we're doing, you prat! First of all, you mentioned that Hermione's been down lately. Well, wouldn't you like to give her a laugh?"

Ron scowled at him. "Sure, but not at _me!"_

"It doesn't have to be _at_ you! Say something back! Show her that we aren't the only ones with the Weasley wit! Besides, that's part of the other point. If you can't get her to laugh, and she sees we've upset you, she might get all defensive and sympathetic. Either way, you win!"

Head tilted to the side, he pondered that. They were...right. Either he could get her to laugh and forget about her problems, or she would feel the need to side with him against Fred and George, and any lingering negative feelings she might be holding onto would be pushed aside.

"That's...brilliant! Sneaky, but brilliant!"

They looked quite pleased at the praise. "Well, that describes us perfectly, wouldn't you say?"

There was a loud crack, and Hermione reappeared, an odd little smile on her face. She joined him on the floor, disturbing giggles erupting from her before she swallowed them back down. Ron eyed her warily.

"Did you get it sorted?"

She hunched over, snorting into her knees, before finally turning her head to face him. "Y-yes...She...she asked...oh Merlin...She asked if you were free this weekend!"

That was enough for her to collapse completely, her body shaking with laughter as tears poured from her eyes. The twins were quick to join in, and Ron sat there, staring at them all in disgust. At least, until Hermione slumped enough that her head was resting on his shoulder. Staring down at the top of her head, he wondered when was the last time he had heard her laugh like that. He couldn't recall. Surely not any time after the funeral. Or even very much before. And with the way things were shaping up, there might not be a lot to laugh at in the near future. He caught Fred giving him a thumbs up and a smug grin, but he found that it didn't bother him. So what if he was mentally scarred for life? Hermione, at least for this moment in time, was happy and laughing, because of something to do with him. She was leaning against him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and this time, he knew that even if it might not be what he was hoping it was, at least it wasn't out of grief, where anyone might do. Maybe, Just maybe, if he strung together enough moments like these, then he just might have a chance.

He just hoped that they wouldn't have to involve anymore naked old ladies.


	19. Step Three, Followed by Step One (T)

**Prompt Combo: Your character accepts or rejects a life changing offer or proposal/"You can't just mess with the natural order of things!"**

The sound of the hall clock struck the hour, signalling to Ron that he had been lost in thought for longer than he had realized. He glanced at Hermione to see if she had noticed, but she was still busy catching up on the papers she had missed while on the two week vacation she had taken with her folks right after graduation. This was her first day back with him, and Harry had graciously vacated the premises (Ron firmly ignored his probable location), and they were enjoying a few quiet hours after the big dinner they had. Surely, by now she was in a sleepy, pleasant mood, and would be more receptive to what he had to say? Or at least fuzzy enough that he could get a word in. Casual, Weasley. Keep it light and casual.

"Hermione?"

'Hmmm?"

"Can you put that down for a minute? There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

He must've muffed the casual bit, because she instantly set the paper aside, twisting to face him with those two little lines she got between her eyes when she was worried.

"Is something wrong? You've been acting strangely all evening, but I thought it might have been something you ate."

Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here he was, about to do something life changing and momentous, and she thought he was in some kind of gastric distress.

"No, Nothing's wrong. Far from it, at least, _I_ think so."

She scrutinized his face, and whatever she found there seemed to reassure her, for the lines relaxed, though they didn't disappear entirely.

"Alright, I'm listening."

He had decided on the direct approach, at least for this phase. "I'm going to ask you to marry me."

Hermione nearly fell off the sofa in her surprise, the only sounds emerging from her mouth were those of a pinched chicken. He gave her time to gather her thoughts; typical of Hermione, it didn't take long at all.

"You...you _what?_ Ron...I... _You're asking me to marry you? Now?!"_

Oh, hell. He should've worded that better. "No!"

"Then I don't understand; you're going to ask me to marry you, but you aren't asking me to marry you?"

The confusion on her face would be funny at any other time, but Ron could see that things were quickly getting away from him.

"I mean, I'm going to ask you in the future. Properly. However you want it, strange Muggle customs and all. Down on one knee, or popping out of a giant cake wearing nothing but the ring tied to my bits with a piece of ribbon."

At her horrified expression at that last part, he made a mental note to strangle Harry and George for feeding him false information. He also had some cake mixes he needed to return.

Hermione gave a nervous giggle at the murderous expression that flashed across his face, thankful that she had nipped _that_ in the bud. Still, she didn't quite understand what was going on. Why did he feel the need to tell her this?

"That's...lovely, it really, _really_ is, but why are you telling me this now?"

Wasn't it obvious? "Because I want to know if you're going to say yes, so I can ask the other part." He was mostly successful in keeping the puppy-like whine from his voice. Mostly.

Hermione blushed furiously. Truthfully, she had been thinking of the possibility of marrying Ron for years. More so, once they had gotten together, and it seemed like it could actually happen. She hadn't mentioned it yet, because she wanted to make sure he was as serious about it as she was (though she had suspected he was), and she actually had plotted out a timeline for their relationship to progress. They would continue to date, and in several months to a year, they would find a flat together. Within two years of that, a proposal, with the wedding coming six months to a year after. Children were on another chart, though they were comfortably years away from that. Still, it was embarrassing to be asked outright like this, for some reason.

"Well, yes, I had hoped that we would get to that point, eventually. But I still don't understand why you're asking."

She couldn't help but smile at the way he beamed at her, like a child getting exactly what he wanted on Christmas morning.

"So you'll say yes? When I do ask?" He asked again, just to be certain.

"Yes, Ron. When you ask, I plan on saying-"

"Good! Let's look for a flat."

"-ye-wait, what? A flat? But you just said-"

"Yeah, I wanted to make sure we were on the same page before I went out on a limb and asked you to move in with me. And then, once we do that, dating will be loads easier than it is now."

Hermione was a creature of logic; steps and patterns were her meat and drink. Trying to follow Ron's convoluted reasoning was going a good way to breaking her mind.

"Let me get this straight," she said slowly, "You just asked if I would marry you, but you didn't propose. You want us to move in together, start dating, and _then_ get married?"

Ron muttered to himself, ticking all of her points off on his fingers before giving a decisive nod. "That's it exactly."

The cushion behind her sank under her weight as she fell back, stunned. "B-but... _you can't just mess with the natural order of things!"_

He blinked at her. "Why not?"

She took a deep breath to collect herself. "Because! That's just not how things are done! There are certain steps and rules you have to follow!"

To her surprise, he laughed. "Who says? First of all, since when have we ever done things the right way round? Secondly, last I heard, there weren't any hard and fast rules to love. At least, not beyond the basics. I asked if you would marry me because I fully intend on asking you, but I didn't want to mess about and waste both of our time if you weren't on board for that. And I want to do the whole bit, the dress, the ceremony, all of that. But I also know that I don't want to wait for that before I get to be with you. If the bloody war taught me anything, it taught me that you have to get in all the time with the people you love while you can, because you never know when the next moment will be their last."

They were both quiet, thinking about those that had been lost. Hermione wanted to speak, but something told her to hear him out.

"Things are going to be hectic when we start working, you know that. Between that, and our families, it's going to be hard to squeeze in time together. At least this way, we can at least pass out with each other at the end of the day. And since we'll be the only ones living there, we don't have to work our schedules around anyone else, and our free time will be ours to do as we please."

Hermione began to question the quality of the clams she had earlier, because what he was saying actually made sense. Things were going to be very busy for both of them for quite a while, and bouncing back and forth between places wasn't going to be something they could maintain for long. Things with her parents were doing better, but not to the point of having Ron over for more than a visit, and the Burrow was definitely out. Grimmauld Place was alright, but she didn't want to have to restrict themselves in front of Harry, and she knew he'd like some alone time with Ginny, as well. What with work, and running around trying to please various family members, it didn't leave a lot of room for the growth of their relationship. And the very fact that Ron had put so much thought into that very fact showed her that he was as dedicated to this as she had hoped. It was a struggle, as her practicality (and honestly, the appeal of living with Ron) warred against years of carefully laid plans and conventions.

Seeing that she was nearly to the point of agreeing with her, he pressed on. "I'll be honest; you'll get my foul mouth and bloody temper, and I can't seem to keep socks from piling up in the oddest places to save my life. I'm rubbish at Cleaning Charms, and I'll probably get crumbs in the sheets from my three in the morning snack run. I'm out of sorts before I've had breakfast, and even worse when I'm sick. You'll have to endure Quidditch matches on the wireless. But I'll also listen to you rant and rave about how inefficient your coworkers are, and I'll stay up with you on the nights your nightmares are too bad for you to sleep. I'll support whatever you decide to do, but I'll also call you out when you get so deep into your head that you can't see that you're hurting people around you. I'm not all that much, Hermione, but I can give you my love. You'll have all of that."

His voice was unusually quiet, and she was nearly crying at the end, as his words became more serious. What could she say to that?

"Then I'll be honest as well. I might not have your foul mouth, but I'll make up for it by nagging more than I should. You'll have to deal with my temper as well, although it's something we should both work on. I will steal your quills. There will be stacks of books everywhere, and I'm warning you now, Crookshanks is part of the bargain. My cooking needs to improve a good deal, and I will constantly be clogging the drain with my hair. But I'll help you study for all of your Auror exams, and I'll stay awake with _you_ when _your_ nightmares are too bad for you to sleep, even the ones you pretend not to have. I'll support whatever _you_ decide to do, but I'll also call you out when you don't take things as seriously as you might need to. If you're not 'all that much,' then neither am I, because I refuse to believe we're anything less than equals; but I can give you my love. You'll have all of that."

Both of their eyes were watery, although Ron was doing a good job of pretending it wasn't affecting him.

"So, does that mean we can start looking for a place?"

Hermione laughed; sometimes it was very obvious why his Patronus was a terrier. "Yes, we can start looking for a place. What happens now that we've reached an agreement? People usually shake hands."

Leaning forward with a wide grin, he pressed his forehead to hers, their lips brushing as he declared, "I think we can do better than that."

Things shook that night, but decidedly more than hands.


	20. Misery Would Love Some Company (K+)

**Prompt: inspired by the song I'd Rather, by Luther Vandross**

Raindrops hit the waters surface with rapid, angry slaps that echoed to create a roar. Ron stared blankly out of his window at Shell Cottage, unable to tell where the storm ended and the ocean began. It mattered little, as his attention was focused thousands of miles away. Or not; maybe what he was looking for was within shouting distance. He wouldn't know, and he had no one to blame but himself.

A few minutes. All he had wanted was a few minutes alone, to clear out the toxic mess in his head. The voice had grown louder and louder until he was driven mad from it, and the only solution had been to get some time away from the two who seemed to confirm every loathsome suspicion that was placed in his head. They had started off as soft, subtle whispers, and had grown into agonizingly piercing shrieks. His ability to fight them off had weakened and dwindled, until he found himself walking out of the tent, not exactly sure what had happened. All he had known was that he was hurt and furious, and he wanted to show them how much. The idea had been to shock them, to make them see that he wouldn't sit back and take their exclusion, wouldn't stand to be ignored and treated as dead weight. The realization of what he had done hadn't hit him until he had Apparated away.

By then, it was too late.

The enormity of his actions flooded over him, and he had tried, desperately, to get back; maybe it was the distance, or the shock, but the poison that had been rotting away within him had somehow been purged, and he was himself again. Screaming and crying had probably not been the best idea, because it had drawn unwelcome attention...

Somehow, he had saved himself and had ended up at Shell Cottage, nearly scaring Bill and Fleur to death. They had taken him in, though they hadn't been pleased at his evasiveness. Bill had his suspicions, Ron could tell by some of the pointed things he had said, but he didn't have the energy to fight. The only good thing to come from it had been finding out that his family was alright; but even that made him feel guilty. He had been worrying over them, even though they had plenty of resources to keep them safe, while Harry and Hermione had no such luxury. They were out there in the cold, barely able to scrape by on the little food they could find. They had no way of getting any information, and Ron knew that they needed to hear about the Taboo, otherwise all of Hermione's careful precautions would be for nothing.

Hermione.

When he wasn't beating himself up over the situation in general, he was beating himself up over her, specifically. He had been sharp and nasty to her for months, and she had let him slide a surprising amount. The things he had said must have hurt her, but she rarely fought back, and he felt the worst kind of bully, because that had never been how things were between them. Whenever they had clashed before, it had always been on equal terms. In truth, she should have been glad to hear him say he was leaving; she should have packed his bag and booted him right out of the tent. Things had been going so well before that...dancing at the wedding, falling asleep at night, holding hands...everything leading up to the day they broke in at the Ministry. Then everything came crashing down, and nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Then again, isn't that how it always went?

He shifted af the memories, the white paint on the windowsill chipping and flaking under his fingernails, as if he was digging into his own skin. Their relationship had been odd from the start, a mix of exasperation and affection that, at least on his part, had grown into something more. He had been at turns hopeful and despairing, first believing that things might work out if he tried hard enough, and then being even more certain that he would never stand a chance. In his frustration last year, he had even gone as far as trying to burn her out of his system by snogging Lavender at every opportunity, but that had failed miserably. Having Hermione out of his life hadn't made him forget her. It had only made the gaping hole where she _should_ be in his life all the more obvious. The luckiest thing that had happened to him had been when he was poisoned, which somehow brought her back to him. They hadn't really discussed it, but she had forgiven him, and they had moved on.

That wouldn't happen this time.

This hurt was too big to overcome, too impossible to forgive. Even if the impossible happened and she forgave him, he knew he would _never_ forgive himself. Now he had to live with the knowledge that while he was safe, warm, and fed, she and Harry were out there, fighting to stay alive. He wondered what she would say if she knew that at night, he would slip outside to sit in the cold for hours at a time, the wind stinging his skin and numbing his bones, just to have that small connection to them. Or how after complaining so much about being hungry, he now barely ate anything, the food changing to ash and regret the moment he put it into his mouth. And how he was still listening to the radio, but now, instead of the names of his family, he was listening for any news of her and Harry. Part of him never wanted to hear their names, and another part hoped for at least a sighting, to give him some point to Apparate to, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to find them with the Wards.

He wondered what she would say (if she actually listened) if he told her that he finally got it now, the important things. He had thought that they had it bad, and he had focused on all of the negative things. The cold. The hunger. The lack of direction. But now that he had all of those things (well, not so much the third), he could see how little they mattered. Being better off hadn't made him any happier. What mattered the most was back there in that tent. He would do anything to get back to that, to them. He didn't care if he had to live off of grass, or if the smell of cat piss became so ingrained into his skin that it never washed out. He would rather be starving with her than stuffing himself at one of his Mum's Sunday dinners. He would rather be freezing cold at her side than tucked into his warm bed back at the Burrow. He would rather be miserable with her than being safe and cared for here.

The most important thing to him now was getting back. He'd beg for forgiveness if he had to, but he wouldn't expect it. All he asked was that they would let him stay, so he could do his part to keep them safe, as he had meant to do all along. Afterwards, she would very likely refuse to have anything to do with him. The thought would break his heart, if it hadn't already been shattered into jagged shards that ached every time he thought of her. But at least he would know that she was alive. Every moment he was allowed with her until then would be a memory he would hoard away for later. Every expression, every word, would be committed to memory so that, years from now, he would still be able to recall the exact shade of her hair in the light of the fire from the night's watch.

A sliver of wood caught in his finger, and he jerked his hand back, wincing at the damage he had done to the paint. Unable to keep still for long, he dug into his pocket, Pulling out the Deluminator. He flicked it open and shut, the small light from his lamp being sucked in, only to pop back out again. It was only after a few minutes of this that he realized that the sun was beginning to rise, a faint sliver of muted gold shining through the rain. He should probably lie down, and at least pretend to sleep. The Deluminator was slipped back into his pocket, its weight a strange comfort to him. He knew Hermione was still pouring over the book Dumbledore had left her, and he felt a little more connected to her when he was holding his gift at the same time she was likely holding hers. Before he went to lie down, he picked up the quill on the small desk, intending to mark off another day. For the first time in his life, the twenty-fifth of December meant nothing to him. The last thing he felt like doing was celebrating, and he knew he would be lousy company for his brother and his wife. He would do best to stay in his room, and let them enjoy themselves.

Not bothering to turn back the covers, he curled onto his side, his hand hooked in his pocket to feel the cool metal. Christmas, he thought, was supposed to be a magical season, a time for warmth and fulfilled wishes. He sort of hoped that was true. Even if it was too much to ask to find a way back, he at least wanted word that she was alright. Even one word would do.

He could really use a miracle about now.


	21. My Cup Runneth Over (T)

**Prompt: Quidditch Cup 2014.**

When Hermione had first been presented with the idea of going with Harry and his family to see the World Cup, her first inclination was to say no. It was a long time to take off of work, and traveling with two young children by international Portkey didn't sound like a wise idea. But her children had begged, and she couldn't resist the three pairs of puppy eyes they had trained on her. (Rose and Hugo had enlisted Ron, a master of the look of which they were mere disciples.) Ron had also made the practical points that they were overdue for a long vacation, and they could easily afford it. He had also gone in for the clincher, saying what an educational time it could be for the kids. Not that she didn't see through that, but she gave him points for mentioning it.

And while she didn't care a fig for Quidditch in general, She had fond memories of her first Cup, and wanted to give her children a chance to create their own memories as well. It had swelled from there, with all of the other Weasleys except for Arthur and Molly deciding to go. Word got out, and Neville, Hannah, Luna, and her husband decided to attend, as well. It was like a reunion, in a location that had no negative ties to the past. Chances like that didn't happen often, so Hermione agreed to go, although she wasn't thrilled at the idea of staying in a tent. Ron made it his mission to change her attitude (and his as well, he admitted), and had treated her to a highly enjoyable evening in the new tent he bought, to break it in.

The days leading up to their departure were hectic, running around and trying to get everything ready, along with helping Harry with his kids. Harry was a great dad, but handling his brood required a minimum of two adults; at least, it did with James. He seemed determined to live up to the mischief of his uncles, and the two Marauders he was named after, and Harry had once dryly remarked that he was glad he hadn't added Remus as a second middle name. Ginny wasn't having it much better; she owled frequently about the amount of time she was having to spend with Rita Skeeter, claiming that she might be forced to do something drastic before the whole thing was over.

Matches were followed keenly, anticipation rising as the teams were whittled down. To Ron's disgust, Viktor Krum had come out of retirement, and was doing remarkably well.

"Really? At his age? Isn't it about time he traded in his broom for a cane?" Ron had groused when he learned the news, running his fingers through his fresh haircut, styled with his fringe brushed back.

"You know, he's not any older than us now than he was in fourth year. You might want to think of a different insult," Hermione commented, careful not to make a face. She adored Ron, but her feelings didn't extend to the new hairstyle he was trying out.

Ron had grinned. "Well, you're closer to his age than I am." He ducked a flying pillow directed at his face. "Joking! Although with that arm, you could join as a Chaser. Are you sure you haven't been sneaking to Bulgaria for training sessions with Krum?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, stealing his pillow to replace the one she had thrown. "Yes, Ron. You've figured it out; that's what I do on my long lunch hours."

"Figured as much; those are the days I owl Lavender, and we-ouch! Did you have to throw the bloody book?" Ron pouted, rubbing his chest.

"Sorry. Reflex."

She had thought that that had been the end of it as far as Viktor was concerned, until the first time she heard him cackling over Bulgaria missing an easy point. He had blinked innocently at her when he caught her looking at him, and she had decided to drop it, for the moment. She was more concerned with getting the children packed with all of the things they'd need; the match might hold their attention, but the rest of the time had to be filled somehow. Special blankets and cuddle toys had to be kept track of, along with enough books for bedtime. Hopefully, they would spend most of the time playing with their cousins, and wouldn't have time to get up to much trouble. She rolled her eyes at her own wishful thinking.

The day they were to leave, Hermione was checking that everything was in her beaded bag, and that Rose and Hugo had their backpacks strapped on firmly, while Ron double checked the tent. Both of them had been distracted when Harry arrived with his three, a woebegone look on his face. Hermione and Ron froze, staring at the gash on his cheek that looked as if it had been made in the past day.

Hermione gasped, Oh, Harry! What happened?"

Ron came up to inspect his friend more thoroughly. "I didn't think you were working on any cases at the moment. Did something big go down?"

Harry stared ahead, waving them away. "Not work related. Not going to talk about it. Bad enough that I'll die of embarrassment when I have to tell Ginny."

James, who had been chasing Rose around the sofa, looked up at his father. "I love you?"

Harry sighed. "That got you out of being grounded, but don't push it. I can always tell Aunt Luna that you'd like those interpretive dance lessons that she offered."

James looked horrified, the unruly hair that he shared with his father practically standing in alarm. "I'll be good, I promise!"

Ron nodded. "Wise move. I've seen the outfits she'd make you wear for that, and it puts the rig she wore for her wedding to shame."

The trio paused to remember the event; They had known Luna well enough to expect something outlandish, but that outfit had exceeded their imaginations. Bets had been placed on it, in fact, but no one could collect, because nearly everyone had gotten something right, if not quite how they meant it. The only thing that could be universally agreed on was that poor Rolf had looked like he had swallowed a dragon egg when he caught sight of her. But he was a very laid back sort, and able to quickly adjust to whatever Luna threw at him.

"Anyway, are you lot ready? I'd like to get there in time to find a good spot to set up the tents," Harry questioned, never breaking eye contact as he scooped up Lily, who had been climbing his leg like a koala.

Ron lifted the striped blue roll that, when unfolded, would pop up into a roomy tent. "Already taken care of. Bill, Charlie, Percy and their lot all left yesterday, and they've saved us a couple of spots. George sent Ange and the kids on ahead, and he'll come this afternoon after he wraps up a few things at the shop."

"Kids, get over here! It's time to go!" Hermione yelled, clapping her hands for attention. Four small bodies scrambled over, knowing from experience that it was unwise to ignore her.

Harry shifted Lily to his left arm, the floppy ears of her blue bunny smacking him in the face as he dug around in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a tapemeasure, which was stretched out so everyone could grab hold. Ron slipped the strap of the tent over his shoulder, and put his free hand around Rose, who looked a bit nervous. She grinned up at him, the gap from her newly missing tooth winking at him. He smiled back; Rose was smart enough to be cautious, but brave enough to throw herself into something once she had decided to. The tapemeasure began to glow, and the kids yelled as they began to spin.

Harry and Ron, used to international Portkeys from Auror training, had landed smoothly, Quickly setting Hermione and the kids back on their feet, then getting hastily out of the way as more than one stomach rebelled at the rough treatment. Once everyone had some color back in their faces, they had set off to the far left side of the field, where Bill had said they were staying. The crowds were thick, with sights, sounds, and smells reminiscent of the Cup they had attended twenty years ago. Sellers of merchandise were hawking their wares from their stands, causing the children to crane their necks longingly, ready to pick out souvenirs. Ron and Harry looked wistful as well, but it was Ron who voiced a firm decision that they would go later, once they had set up.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, it had been Ron who had been strict about the way Rose and Hugo used money. Instead of giving them an overly generous allowance as she had thought he might, he had instead given them age appropriate chores, and if they didn't do them, they didn't get their pocket money. When asked why, he had said that he had always had to earn his, and it had always made him feel like it was really his. It had also made him more careful of how he spent it; it might be on sweets or pranks, but it wasn't blown without thought, either. As he told Hermione, they didn't have to worry about money, and while he didn't want the kids to be obsessed with it, he didn't want them to take it for granted, either. The resulting display of amourous approval had had him smiling for days, and sneaking up behind her to whisper, 'fiscal responsibility,' and 'parental skills' in her ear to rile her up all over again.

One of the perks of being a part of the Weasley family was that they were always easy to find; it wasn't long before they spotted a mass of gingers congregated around a circle of tents, the voices of children at play greeting them as they came closer. Fred spotted them first, and he dashed over to them. The young boy was a mix of both of his parents; he had Angelina's eyes and hair, and George's freckles scattered across his dusky skin, with a tinge of red in his tight braids when the light hit it just right. The grin that he aimed at them brought to mind his namesake, a fact in which his family found a bittersweet comfort.

"Hey, Uncle Harry! There's a surprise waiting for you!" The boy chuckled gleefully, falling into step beside Harry.

"Something tells me it's not a good surprise. Come on, I know you're dying to tell me."

"Well, yesterday when we all got together around the Portkey, we didn't notice we had an extra. Teddy changed his hair to blend in and snuck along, and no one noticed until this morning. Well, none of the _adults_ noticed. Uncle Bill's mad enough to spit."

Harry groaned. "This. This is why my hair is already turning. I don't even have my tent set up yet, and already hell's breaking loose."

"Actually, Ginny set it up last night. She said she couldn't stand another night in the tent set up for the reporters, or she'd end up smashing a bug." Percy informed them, having ambled over from the group of adults.

"I love my wife. And to prove it, I'll try to talk her out of doing anything that'll land her in Azkaban, as soon as I find her."

"I think she's still doing interviews, right now. But I'm glad to see you all made it alright; there's been a few problems with the Portkeys." Percy said, running a frustrated hand through his graying hair.

"What kind of problems?" Hermione asked in alarm, reflexively pulling Hugo closer, before he squirmed out of her grasp.

"Oh, nothing dangerous; just some muddled destinations. Last report was a family of four ending up in Luxembourg. I'm headed off to see if I can help sort things out...try not to mention it in front of Audrey? I had promised I wouldn't bring any work along with me, but this simply can't be overlooked."

"We'll cover for you, Perce. If all else fails, we can ask Teddy to take your place for a bit," Ron teased as he plopped the tent on the ground, making sure he had enough space to erect it.

Harry went off to sort out his stowaway godson, leaving Ron and Hermione to get themselves settled. They sent Rose and Hugo off to play, after warning them not to leave the tents without permission. The tent wasn't as luxurious as they came, but it had two bedrooms, a living area, and small bath and kitchen. The color scheme was warm, blue and chocolate tones, and it was thankfully free of the odor of cat urine. Hermione went to double-check the food supply, while Ron laid out the kids' pajamas for later that night, knowing they would be too worn out to unpack for themselves.

"Think we should go see if Harry managed to save Teddy, or if Bill's already gone cannibal and ground him into steak yet?" Ron asked, tucking his wand into his pocket.

Hermione set out the kettle for later, and joined him by the flap. "You think it's funny now, but you'll be singing a different tune once it's Rose."

Ron shook his head solemnly. "No, because Rose is going to stay eight years old forever."

Brown eyes narrowed. "Ron, you're going to have to allow her to grow up and make her own choices! All we can do is teach her as best as we can, and trust her to-"

He interrupted, seeing she was working up a fine head of steam. "Hermione, I know. I was joking, mostly. I want her to find someone and fall in love and all that; I just don't want her to have to go through all the shit that you did. I'll try to behave, but there'll be times when I see things going badly, and I'll slip."

She reached out to take his hand. "I suppose that's all anyone can hope for; I'll just have to be the sensible one."

With his free hand, Ron pushed back the flap. "Really? Need I remind you which of us cried the first night they spent away from home?"

"Both of us."

"Right. Face it, they're both screwed, and destined for embarrassment."

Harry was already finished, it seemed, as he met them halfway from Bill's tent. "Got everything sorted out. Apparently, he had been joking with Victoire, and hadn't actually meant to come. He was supposed to pull away at the last second, but he tripped, and had to grab hold of the Portkey to keep from falling."

"He does tend to take after Tonks in that regard, doesn't he?" Ron mused.

"Harry! And Ron and Hermione! Over here!" Someone shouted.

A hand waved from a crowd of people, and moving closer, they saw that it was Neville, with two others at his side. One was Hannah, wearing casual Muggle clothing like her husband. The second was Luna; she was dressed as a Muggle as well, but her time period was slightly off. Still, she managed to carry the neon, flower-print kaftan with the small, circular purple sunglasses and matching flower crown, despite the cold weather.

"The Age of Aquarius has come to the Wizarding world," Hermione breathed, earning a smothered laugh from Harry, and a look of confusion from Ron.

They greeted their friends, and Neville invited them to come to his tent to catch up. Once everyone was seated, and the tea had been passed around, Harry turned to Luna.

"Where's Rolf? Didn't he make the trip?"

"Yes, he's here. He ran into a friend he hasn't seen in years, and he and the boys went off together. I hope it does him some good; he was complaining about feeling seasick earlier."

"I can see why," Ron muttered in Hermione's ear, earning a surreptitious pinch on the arm.

The group chatted for a while, the topic eventually turning to careers. It turned out that Hannah was planning to apply as Matron at Hogwarts, both so she and Neville would have more time together, and because she enjoyed working with children, but had no desire to teach.

"Does this mean you're selling the pub?" Ron asked, hoping not; it was one of the few places that could be counted on to put out a tasty meal with huge portions.

Neville laughed. "Nah, we're training up some of the staff to manage it. The salary from the school is alright, but we live off of booze."

They were still chuckling at his joke when the flap was whipped open, and Ginny stalked in, a scowl on her face as she threw herself down next to her husband.

"You look in a dangerous mood. Should I move out of the way?" Harry asked, both amused and concerned.

"Don't give me lip, Potter. I've had all I can stand with trying not to squish bugs today."

"You shouldn't smash bugs, Ginny," Luna said gently. "They're very beneficial, even the nasty, smelly ones that make you sick to your stomach."

"We'll see just how beneficial you think she is once her article comes out; she's caught wind that you're all here, and she's determined to do some sort of expose on the 'Heroes of Hogwarts.' Ginny grumbled darkly.

This was met with groans all around; none of them had ever been wild about that title, and even less pleased with the media attention. Just when they thought the whole thing had died down, it would surge to life again, sometimes making work or daily living more difficult.

"Maybe it won't be too bad, since all the focus is on the Cup right now," Hannah said hopefully.

But, true to form, it was.

Or, if not bad, certainly not good, Ron thought, if Hermione's strangled scream at the breakfast table was anything to go by.

"Rose, you and Hugo go on outside to play," Ron said, knowing his wife needed to let off steam. As the kids dashed out of the tent, he picked up the paper that had been thrown onto the table, and smoothed out the creases so he could read.

"Hm. You know, the rumors used to fly around that _Ginny_ would leave _Harry_ for a Quidditch player; looks like he's had her beat with Krum, all along. He's gonna get more than a little scar on his cheek for that."

Hermione stabbed her sausage in a wince inducing manner.

"And I don't think that this was how Bill wanted to find out how serious things were getting between Teddy and Victoire. Surprised we haven't heard the howling yet."

Hermione slammed her fork on the table. "How can you joke like that, after all of the awful things she said?"

Ron sighed, seeing that humor wasn't going to be of any help yet. "Hermione, Skeeter's a bitch. You know it, I know it, practically every witch and wizard in England knows it. I don't like what she said any more than you do, but it's not as if anyone is going to believe it."

"But it's outright lies! Potentially damaging ones, at that. Parents could complain about sending their children to a school with a known alcoholic as a professor, and Hannah might be turned down for the Matron position because of this! Where did she even come up with that?"

"Honestly? I think she was sneaking around in her bug form before we got the wards put up, and heard us talking. But everyone on the school board knows them, so I doubt it's going to be a problem. Besides, we lived through Trelawney, just like most of the parents out there. They'll consider the source, and ignore it."

"Ugh. Please don't equate Neville to that woman," she shuddered.

Ron scooted his chair closer. "You're just mad, because she never predicted you'd be a femme fatale."

"Oh, dear god," she moaned. "Don't start. It's bad enough imagining the ribbing I'll get at work when we get back."

"Would that be before or after you check me back into my special ward at St. Mungo's?" Ron asked innocently.

Finally, Hermione smiled, her shoulders beginning to shake as she laughed. "Did living with my bushy hair finally drive you mental?"

Pleased that her mood had lightened, Ron lifted the hair in question, nuzzling her exposed neck. "Mmm. You drove me mental years ago."

Hermione sighed at the pleasant sensations, which were brought to a halt when Rose and Hugo raced back into the tent. Both made faces at their parents' compromising positions, but said nothing about it.

"Daddy, you said we could go pick out our souvenirs today! Can we go yet? Pleeeeeeeease?" Rose begged, with Hugo jumping up and down beside her.

He had hoped for an hour or so alone with Hermione, but they had been patient so far, and he _had_ promised. Sliding the last of his eggs into his mouth, he wiped his face with a napkin, and stood from the table.

"Alright, let's go see if the others are ready to go, too. You coming, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "You go on. I'd like to read a few chapters of my book, since I probably won't be able to during the match."

Her husband looked pained at the thought of reading during Quidditch, but he allowed his children to grab him by the hands and lead him away. With a flick of her wand, she cleared away the breakfast things, then went to the sitting area to lounge on the sofa with her book. although she had it in her hands, she couldn't focus on it very well. Ron hadn't seemed upset by the article, and in a way, that was good. Nearly twenty years ago, and that wouldn't be the case. His self confidence, which had grown wonderfully, would have put him in a blue mood for days, over analyzing and criticizing himself.

Instead, she found herself being enraged on his behalf. The shot about his hair had been bad enough, even if she grudgingly admitted that the style didn't suit him, and gave the impression that he was indeed losing his hair. But it was the other two points that bothered her, along with the way they slyly made Ron out to be the lesser member of the trio, when nothing could be farther from the truth. First, to imply that Ron had taken a step down with his career choice was ludicrous. Even if you ignored the fact that Ron hadn't, in fact, retired from the force, but was still active as head of intelligence, the shop was a money maker. Ron and George were constantly generating new ideas, with George focusing mainly on the creative aspect, while Ron spotted trends that helped improve sales. He also had a knack of knowing which inventions could be turned to a more practical use, which had lead to a contract with the Ministry.

All of that took brains and skill, and reducing those qualities down to those of s salesclerk irked her to no end. But the part that really fried her bacon was the implication that Ron was mentally unstable. Of course the war had taken a lot out of him! He had watched one of his brothers die, for the love of Merlin! Not to mention the severe strain of the hunt, and the guilt he felt over leaving both her and Harry. The war had affected all of them deeply, though Ron perhaps wore it more visibly in his facial expressions at times. But that hadn't stopped him pursuing a successful (double) career, along with raising a happy and healthy family. Ron adored her and their kids, and he was constantly showing it, along with maintaining relationships with the rest of his family. Just because his priorities were right, and he didn't go in for flash, didn't mean that he was mentally impaired.

Ron had matured into the wonderful man that she had always seen underneath the insecure boy, and she hated that others didn't see that, as well. It was obvious she was going to have to get together with Ginny; Rita was getting too big for her display case; she might need a reminder about the confining nature of jars...

Hermione mused off and on for several hours, blinking dazedly when she heard the loud voices of her family arriving, with squeals and whoops signifying that the trip had been a success; and that was just Harry and Ron. The children were even more vocal, all clamoring for her attention at once.

James and Lily were in Bulgarian red, as Hermione had expected; Harry had always supported Viktor after fourth year. Albus was in green, which was surprising, until she saw her own children. Huge t-shirts were over their jumpers, adorned with what looked like every flashing Brazilian badge that had been up for sale. Their faces were painted, and the whole thing was topped off with Luna-worthy hats, along with a banner that each was waving gleefully. Albus almost always went along with whatever Rose did, but she had thought that all of the kids were going to support Bulgaria. She had a sneaking suspicion about what had happened.

"I thought you two were going to wear red, like Uncle Harry?" She asked.

"But Daddy would've been lonely, wearing green all by himself," Rose pointed out.

"Yeah, and like Dad told us, Brazil is fun to say! Brazzzzzzzzzzzzil! Bulgaria sounds like the noise Crookshanks makes when he's sick!" Hugo added, with sound effects to match.

From a safe spot near the exit, Harry spoke up. "I tried to talk him out of it, Hermione."

Ron, who had wisely been keeping his mouth shut, glared at his so-called friend. "Thanks, mate. I appreciate the support. Really."

Harry shrugged, rubbing the scar on his cheek, pretending to be interested in the little shirt that Lily had gotten for her bunny.

"Ron, your... _whatever_ about Viktor is bad enough, There's no reason to drag the children into it!" Hermione snapped, her hair bristling around her.

"Weeeeeell, as lovely as it is to chat, I think I'll go say hello to George," Harry piped up.

"You said hello this morning," Ron reminded him.

"Then I'll say hello again. You can never say it too often. Come on, kids. I think there's some board games in one of the other tents." And like the Pied Piper, he led them away, leaving an abashed Ron to deal with his wife.

Hermione put her hands on her hips, leaning forward in battle mode. "This ridiculous hatred you have for Viktor has to stop-"

"I don't hate him."

"-because it's a bad examp- you what?" Hermione spluttered, confused by his quiet statement.

Ron ruffled his hair, before slumping into one of the cushy armchairs, his bright green shirt clashing horribly.

"I don't hate him, Hermione. At least, not the way you think. You were right the other day, when you said that he's one of the best Seekers out there; he's as good as he ever was, and I reckon I'd be a fool to claim otherwise." He paused, searching for the right words. "It's just...it reminds me of fourth year, and what a cock-up I was. He was everything I wanted to be, and wasn't; he was easy to blame when I realized I wanted you, and had probably already lost you. I don't see a Quidditch player when I look at him. I see a pathetic, poor fourteen year old in the world's tackiest dress robes, sticking out worse than he usually does."

Hermione had never really thought of it that way. But now that she did, she understood it wasn't petty jealousy; it was about being uncomfortable about an embarrassing point in his life, and that was something probably everyone had to deal with. Her anger dissipated, and she sank into the chair next to his, reaching out to take his hand that was on the armrest.

"Alright. I suppose I can see your point; just as long as you know that it was never a competition between you, and that even if it had been, you would have won."

Ron looked up, blue eyes hopeful. "So you aren't mad at me?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Because I can take the kids to exchange their stuff; I don't mind being the only one in green. Just me, all alone. No support from my loving-"

Deft little fingers twisted the skin on the back of his hand. "Don't push your luck, or I'll not only take you up on that offer, but I'll make you wear a Krum jersey yourself."

He flashed her an exaggeratedly horrified look. "I think I'd rather wear something that you knitted back in fifth year!"

She leaned over to kiss him. "That can be arranged, too. Should we go find Harry, and tell him it's safe to come out?"

A long, rumbling gurgle came from Ron's stomach. "Yeah, and maybe hit a couple of the food tents, as well. You mentioned wanting the kids to try some of the local stuff."

As he went on to describe how Rose and Hugo had enjoyed their morning, she smiled, walking slowly with him. Twenty years ago, she never would have believed that she and Ron could have come this far; it was amazing what a little maturity and work on both of their parts could do. She didn't care what that blasted article said; Ron was amazing.

Although RIta was still going to be hearing from her...

The day of the match was bright and clear, although still quite cold. The kids were getting used to it, though they had initially been confused about how it could be cold in July. She and Ron were barely able to make them sit still long enough for breakfast, and then they were nearly late when they made it halfway to the stands, and Hugo decided that he needed to go to the bathroom after all. Everyone else had already arrived; Bill was looking dangerous as he kept a close eye on Teddy and Victoire, while Fleur wore a smile of private amusement. Charlie was obviously enjoying his older brother's plight, but wisely, stayed quiet about it. Percy seemed to have been forgiven by Audrey, and was now having a debate about Quidditch rules with his oldest daughter. George was grinning, and whispering something in Angelina's ear, while at the same time reaching over to flick Fred on his ear, who had been about to slip something down the back of his sister's shirt. Neville, Hannah, Luna, and her family were in one corner, and Ron was disappointed to see that Luna wasn't wearing one of her trademark hats. Shame, really; it didn't feel like a proper function without one.

Harry waved them over to the seats he had been saving, and he and Hermione sat down, although Rose and Hugo were too excited to stay still for long. They could see Ginny over in the announcer's box, and they waved, though Ron noticed the way Hermione glared at the older woman seated next to his sister. Ginny was giving her the stink-eye, as well. He shuddered. If Skeeter had the sense that God gave a bug, she wouldn't bother to pack her bags, but slip quietly out of the country.

While the whole thing was exciting, it was a bit different than he had remembered it. He wasn't quite as focused on what was happening on the field as he had been when he was a kid; now, he was just as interested in the reactions of Rose and Hugo, watching their faces light up and the team's displays. He wondered if this is how his dad had felt; he'd have to ask when he got home. The Veelas took the pitch, and Ron recalled the effect they had had on him at fourteen. A walking ball of hormones, he had nearly broken his neck trying to get their attention. He could feel the power they were exerting now, and felt himself go a bit numb from the magic. They were pretty, certainly; he wasn't like some of the men he knew, that pretended that other women weren't pretty once they got married. That was bollocks. Just because he was in love with his wife, and had no desire to be with anyone else, didn't mean he was blind.

An elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and he grunted, rolling his eyes at Hermione's unamused expression. Harry saw the movement and leaned forward to catch Hermione's eye.

"At least he's not trying to jump down from the stands this time," he snickered.

"A vast improvement, to be sure," she replied dryly.

Ron wasn't having any. He leaned close, so only she could hear. "Really? Don't think I didn't see you with that issue of Witch Weekly. You know the one; Wizarding World's Top 50 Hottest Hunks. The pages looked a bit worn, as well."

Hermione flushed. "I read it for the articles!"

He patted her on the leg. "Sure, you did. I would _never_ think otherwise."

"Hurrumph."

Smugly, he turned his attention to the match, he and Harry taking turns to explain what was going on. After a while, Luna started passing around some strange looking biscuits. Ron waited until a few people had sampled them; once a minute of two went by with no ill side effects, he allowed the kids to try them, and helped himself as well. He bit into it; it was odd, and slightly fruity, but the taste grew on you. Rather like Luna herself, really. He gave her a thumbs up, and she beamed back at him; she knew he didn't praise food lightly. Harry had his hands full with James, and missed that Albus, usually the quietest of the boys, was about to topple over the edge. With reflexes still sharp from training, Ron reached out and yanked him back, staying outwardly calm. On the inside, his heart was thudding at the close call. That, to him, was the worst part about having kids; they seemed so... _fragile,_ in some ways, as if they could be snatched away from you in an instant. A pale looking Hermione squeezed his hand, and they both glanced at their own children, safely bobbing up and down in their seats.

Thankfully, the excitement after that was confined to the pitch, and Ron felt himself pulled into the game, holding his breath every time someone prepared to score, and cursing when a point went to Bulgaria. Hermione sighed deeply, but didn't bother to admonish him, which he was grateful for. At this point, it wasn't even about Krum; it was about picking a team, and sticking with them until the end, even if you privately thought the other team, or at least a certain key player, was better.

The pressure of a smaller body pushing against him led him to glance down, finding Hermione burrowing into his side. Although she was dressed warmly, it was quite cold, and her lips and cheeks were pale. Pulling his arm out from between them, he draped it around her shoulders, barely hearing the contented murmur that left her mouth. His attention was now unevenly divided between the match and his wife. Hermione was staring straight ahead wearing the same expression he himself wore when forced to attend some of the more serious plays she liked, and she was obviously only taking in the game on a very basic level. She had only ever had any real interest in Quidditch if someone she cared about was playing, and apparently Krum didn't fit the bill. In some ways, he was surprised she had come along at all; the trip could've been passed off as 'Daddy time,' and she could be at work right now, happily working away on her latest caseload.

But she _did_ enjoy seeing him and the kids happy, and while she was passionate about her work, her relationships came first. It had been a hard balancing act to learn, and he had worried at first that she wouldn't be happy. He shouldn't have worried; Hermione wasn't the type to live any way but the way she wanted to, and she hadn't seen the need to give up family for career. She busted balls at the Ministry by day, and fought him for rights to story time at night. And through all the long hours, teething children, frustrated arguments and angry tears, she still managed to make him feel like he did in those moments of their first kiss.

Unable to contain the rush of affection, he ducked his head to kiss her cheek, the cool skin warming under his lips. She smiled up at him softly, and not even that commentating cow could keep him for going in for another. Until it hit both of them what she was saying, and they both scanned the pitch, looking for Krum.

"Do you see him anywhere? At least he managed to stay on his broom," Hermione asked hopefully.

Ron pointed, his long finger drawing her attention to the correct area. "He looks alright, but depending on how fast they were going, a head injury could be pretty serious." He hoped it wasn't; while the thick-browed Bulgarian irritated him, he didn't actually want anything _bad_ to happen.

Neville was retelling the accident for Albus, gesticulating wildly as he went through the motions. With the way he described it, it looked like Krum might only end up dazed. Thankfully, that was the case, and he was fit to continue; the sportsmanlike side of Ron was happy, but he couldn't help feeling a bit down about what this did to his team's prospects. He sighed. Always doomed to back the loser...at least, in Quidditch. As time wore on, however, he grew more hopeful; the Snitch didn't look to be caught anytime soon, and Brazil was doing pretty well. He was just about to risk a small cheer that wouldn't jar a dozing Hermione, when he heard it.

"KRUM HAS THE SNITCH! BULGARIA WINS!"

Instantly, the whole box was on their feet; Harry was jumping around with his kids, looking about fourteen again; Ron, however, was using every creative swear word at his disposal, completely ignoring Hermione smacking his arm. So close! He had been so bloody close! And now he was going to have to deal with Harry, the smug little git!

Hermione did her best to distract Rose and Hugo from their father's muttering, which she was relieved to see was more a matter of sports fan sulkiness, rather than actual hostility. Years of practice thanks to the Cannons had her nodding and repeating the same soothing words as ever, rolling her eyes whenever she saw one of her sisters-in-law grinning at her in sympathy. George, predictably, had a go at Ron, but Angelina brought him up short with a few whispered words. He took a break from being grumpy to say goodbye to Neville, Hannah, Luna, and Rolf, all promising that they would have to get together again soon.

It was decided that they would all have a giant family dinner in Bill's tent, which, thanks to Fleur, was large enough to handle the job. Teddy, although pleased with the win, was looking a bit gloomy at the prospect of facing his grandmother, and his hair reflected this by turning a nondescript shade of brown. Just when Hermione had thought that Ron's mood had been lightened with food, Rose and Hugo took that opportunity to join Harry and a few of the others in loudly calling out the Bulgarian team's chant, and had somehow managed to get someone to Charm their shirts red, instead of green.

"Oi! What made you two little traitors give up on Brazil?" Ron teased them, looking amused by their fickleness.

"Viktor Krum! He's the most amazing Quidditch player _ever!"_ Hugo breathed, his awed expression almost exactly matching his father's, twenty years previously.

Rose nodded. "Did you see him? He made it look so easy! And he's pretty cute, too," she added thoughtfully, causing laughter to break out around the table.

"Got your mum's taste there, Rosie! Although she didn't date him for long," George grinned, stretching across the table to join the conversation.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably as her kids looked at her, eyes nearly popping from their sockets.

Hugo reached out a hand to touch her, as if maybe a bit of celebrity had worn off on her. "You dated Viktor _Krum?"_

Rose's face wrinkled in confusion. "Then why are you married to _Daddy?"_

"We went to a dance together, and there wasn't much more to it than that," Hermione said firmly, noticing the way Ron's shoulders slumped at Rose's poorly worded question, the hurt that flittered across his eyes quickly hidden. "Just because you go out with someone, doesn't mean you marry them. And Viktor was nice, but not very...interesting." Nice, but lacking the passion that Ron had, the ability to match her anger, and probably in other ways as well.

Rose and Hugo stared at her as if she had said something as outlandish as Luna, looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to eating. Ron had turned to say something to Bill, so Hermione concentrated on her food, although not before trading a knowing look with Harry. He must have seen the look on Ron's face, as well. Somehow, she was going to have to address it.

An hour later, after giving dinner plenty of time to settle, they began to Portkey home, in the same groupings as they arrived, Ginny coming along with Harry and the kids. They landed in Ron and Hermione's sitting room, and, once they had regained their balance, scooped up their sleepy children, and Flooed home. Ron, thinking that Hermione was getting the kids settled, decided to take the first shower, so she could soak in the tub later, if she wanted to. He stood under the hot stream of water, his mind far busier than his hands. One of the things he had always struggled with had been his insecurity. It had nearly cost him his best friends, because of the locket, and he was lucky that things hadn't ended worse than they had. After the war, things and gotten surprisingly better; he knew where he stood with Hermione, and in helping his family after Fred's death, and eventually joining the Aurors, he began to feel more sure of himself. The more confident he was, the easier success came to him, in both his relationships and his careers. Still, every once and a while, the old, nagging doubts set in.

He twisted the taps, reaching out for one of the fluffy yellow towels that Hermione liked. he patted himself mostly dry, wrapping it around his waist as he stepped out of the steamy bathroom and into their bedroom, the cooler air making goosepimples rise up on his skin. With a shiver, he moved to the dresser, but stopped in front of the full length mirror. In the dim light, he eyed himself critically, paying especial attention to his hair. To him, it looked the same as it always did; could it be thinning without him noticing? He might have to try that Muggle stuff Harry joked about, or try to see if he and George couldn't whip up something of their own. Next, he assessed his eyes. They didn't look all too happy at the moment, but did he really look mentally ill? Aside from the sporadic bouts of depression that he shared with most people his age that had gone through the war, he thought he was alright. The body was third on the list, and he twisted and turned, scrutinizing it from all angles. Viktor bloody Krum might be what women (and apparently eight year old girls) went for, but he didn't think he was doing too badly for himself, aside from his pasty, freckled hide. He didn't have rippling muscles; no matter how he ate, or what sort of exercises he did, he was always on the bony side. The muscles he had were lean, and didn't really stand out.

Hermione stepped out of the fireplace, after having taken the children to spend a few days at the Burrow, as she had arranged with Molly before they left on their trip. Her mother-in-law hadn't felt like travelling for the Cup, but she wanted to spend some time with the grandkids, and hear how they had enjoyed it. And this was how she came to find Ron, standing in nothing but a towel in front of the mirror, looking about as displeased with himself as he had the first time they had made love.

"Your hair isn't really thinning, you know. It was just the way you were wearing your fringe," she said quietly, after observing him a few moments.

Ron whirled to look at her, the surprise at being caught evident by the way his ears began to burn. "Oh. Well. Maybe I'll go back to wearing it the old way," he muttered. "Kids already asleep?"

Hermione shook her head, coming further into the room. "No, I took them to the Burrow. Didn't I tell you they were staying there a few days?" She had hoped that this would earn her a lecherous leer, but he only gave a small smile.

"That's good. They'll enjoy that."

Seeing that this was going to take a while, she grabbed his arm, and pulled him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Ron? Something's wrong. You've been acting off since dinner, and you're letting whatever it is get to you."

A sigh escaped him; he knew she'd catch on sooner or later. "D'you think it was a mistake to go work with George?" He blurted.

The question startled Hermione, until she connected the dots. "Ron, that article was trash! Don't you believe a word of it!" She said fiercely. "We've already talked about this. You were too easily recognized to be very active in the main branch, and you're more suited to intelligence and tactics, anyway. And with the kids, it was a safer move for people to think you'd retired. The shop is the perfect cover, and as maddening as George can be, you know you love working with him."

Ron nodded; everything she said was true. "I know. And I'm happy doing what I do, I really am. It's just...sometimes it comes off looking like I just gave up, while you and Harry kept going. I don't want the kids to think-"

"We can't tell them what you do; they're far too young," she reminded him.

His hands gripped the edge of the towel tightly. "I know that! I wouldn't risk their safety just to stroke my ego, Hermione!" He snapped.

Gently, she reached up to cup his jaw, so she could meet his eyes. "I know you wouldn't. I meant that we would tell them _someday._ But love, they wouldn't care for you any less if you _had_ fully retired, or never even made it farther than a clerk. Children's heads are easily turned by people like Quidditch players; but that's never going to change how they feel about you."

The truth and love in her eyes shone with an intensity that made Ron close his own. "I know," he admitted hoarsely. "I just don't want to let them, or _you,_ down." He opened his eyes, smiling weakly. "After all, it's not easy following up to a world-class Quidditch player."

"It's true that I like Quidditch players," she admitted slowly, bringing her face close to his. "But only really _good_ ones," she whispered, covering his mouth in a lingering kiss.

Pulling back, she saw that the light in Ron's eyes had returned, and her words were getting through to him. "So, good Quidditch players that are also balding, mental shop clerks is what tickles your fancy?"

Hermione scooted back on the mattress as he began to pull himself over her, his towel hitching higher on his thighs.

"No. I prefer stunning gingers with keen business sense, and strong family values," she countered, kissing along his jaw.

"What, are you saying you don't want a Seeker to spot your Snitch?" He asked, his hands edging her shirt up.

"Seekers are nice," she allowed, "but Keepers are the ones that know what to do with their hands."

Ron laughed, diving down to kiss her. The weight that had started to settle on his shoulders was being lifted, as it always was when he talked things out with her and got his head on straight. The kids were at the age where they would start to have heroes besides him, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Those kinds of heroes wouldn't be there for them on their first day of Hogwarts, or late at night when they were sick. They wouldn't be there for their first heartbreak, or any of the other milestones in their lives. Rose and Hugo would roll their eyes and heave sighs when they had to deal with him, but if Harry's kids were anything to go by, celebrity didn't count for much. All he could do was love them, occasionally embarrass them, and wait for them to see that he wasn't quite as much of a tosser as they thought.

It wouldn't always be easy, and his feelings were bound to be hurt some. But he had Hermione to remind him that he might not be in the public eye, but he was living a life he could be proud of, and one that made him happy. Twenty years ago, he had gone to his first World Cup; the same year he had started wanking over a girl he thought would never give him the time of day. And now here he was, with a career choice that satisfied him, and that very same girl stretched out under him, looking at him with such a mix of love and lust in her eyes that made his breath catch. To hell with Skeeter; she could write all of the lies she wanted about him from now on.

The truth of his life was too hot for the presses to handle.


	22. Cups Refilled (M)

**Smut outtake from My Cup Runneth Over**

Stress, worries, doubts...all of these things fell away as they moved together, hands and mouths exploring well worn trails. Over the years, they had experienced nearly every type of lovemaking there was, from white hot passion, to worn out and barely focused. Focus wasn't an issue tonight; he was aware of every shuddering sigh, every fine quiver of flesh under his hands. It was like burning from the inside out, and they both willingly let the fire consume them.

It wasn't slow and gentle, neither was it fast and rough. Caresses were firm and sure, each touch made with deliberation to draw the most pleasure from the other. What few words there were, were muffled and indistinct, the tone more than necessary to convey their meaning. Ron hovered over her as she lay breathing heavily against the pillow, her hair a tangled halo around her head. The towel had long since fallen from his body, with her clothes following soon after. Now, with one hand bracing him by her head, and the other resting on his hip, he dropped to trail wet, open kisses down her body, his clever tongue dancing over her ticklish spots, making her stomach ripple and contract. Briefly, he moved back up to her breasts, sucking the undersides hard enough that she would have twin red marks in the morning.

He felt her move underneath him, rubbing her thighs together in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure. Prying her legs open, he settled between them, his lips twitching at the needy gasp she gave as his thumb brushed over her in the lightest of touches. In no mood to tease, he lunged forward, burying his face in her center as his tongue worked her over. He had to hold her thighs to keep her from clamping down too hard, but by now, he knew precisely the right patterns to trace, and the exact amount of pressure required to have her squirming and keening beneath him, her fingers tangling into the tufts of hair she was gripping.

He could feel her, warm and ready and spread all over his cheeks, and he sat up, dragging in a needed lungful of air. The need to join her had become a raw, throbbing ache, and she raised her hands to his shoulders and tugged, a silent signal for him to move. A growl was ripped from between his teeth as he sank into her; he enjoyed the stillness for the briefest of moments, before he began to pump into her in short, smooth thrusts. Her hips raised to meet his, the sound of flesh against flesh punctuating the ragged breathing that echoed in the room.

Sweat soaked his fringe to his face, hanging into his half-lidded eyes as he watched her chew on the back of one knuckle that she briefly held to her mouth, before running it back up his arm. His mind was full of her; the sounds of her whimpers.

The feel of her skin sliding against his.

Her nails raking down his back like _so._

The _heat,_ wrapped and coiling around him, clamping down which each thrust, more frenzied than the last, teasing him, pleading with him to...

_A cry, a curse, a prayer; he was spilling and overflowing into her._


	23. Tilting the Kilt (M)

**A.N. Arrrrgggh, I thought I had posted this already, but apparently I've missed some! Enjoy, while I continue to work on TKYITLY. (Note to self; use shorter titles in the future.)**

**Pompt: Hermione and Ron roleplay as Jaime and Claire from Outlander. Rated M.**

**Special note: The roleplay involved no more makes this Outlander fanfiction than a story with characters dressing up as Stromtroopers for Halloween makes that one Star Wars fanfiction.**

Normally, the sensation of an icy breeze ruffling through his hair and nipping at his skin didn't really bother Ron. After all, he had been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and you didn't last long if such a minor thing as weather bothered you. However, he didn't relish it anywhere near as much when the hair and skin in question was around his bait and tackle, which were currently getting better acquainted with the elements than he had ever thought would be necessary. And why was he standing out here, in a rocky patch of Scotland that didn't even have a name, with a kilt whipping around his legs? Because of his wife's obsession with some daft Muggle book!

When they had decided to take a vacation, Ron had been excited; it had been awhile since they had been able to get away, just the two of them, and he had envisioned nothing more than a nice hotel room, with a few sights and restaurants to occupy them between rounds. If he'd known his bits would be flopping about freely, he would have insisted on at least staying somewhere tropical. Hadn't she had enough of Scotland while they were at Hogwarts? Apparently not. He curled his lip, remembering; the setting had to be 'authentic,' whatever that meant. He had put his foot down at her suggestion. When that failed spectacularly, he had sulked. In a final, desperate gambit, he had whined and begged, but then she had turned those big, brown eyes on him, and he'd been lost. (Her gracious victory shag had helped, as well.)

He leaned against a large, moss covered rock, his green jacket bunching around his elbows as he crossed his arms. The location was bad enough, but what she had failed to mention, until it was too late, was that they would be dressing as characters from her bloody book. He wondered what her coworkers would say if they could see staid, practical Hermione traipsing around as some imaginary person. The next time she teased him when he got too enthusiastic about a Quidditch match, he was going to dangle this over her head. Hm. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all...

"Ron? Are you there?" Hermione's voice called, from the other side of the boulder. "Oh, there you are," she answered her own question, popping around the side.

She was dressed in a brightly colored floral print dress, with a neat row of buttons down the front, and a thin belt nipping in the waist. She wore tan, loafers, and her hair was pinned back in a style that she never usually wore. It was a little strange, but no more so than the kilt, jacket, and boots that he was wearing.

He shrugged with a hint of impatience. "You said to find a place to wait while you talked to the guide. I've had to stare at so many rocks and moldy old castles lately, that I ended up gravitating to them without realizing it. Did you find out what you needed to?" He hoped so; it meant that getting a bite to eat was more likely to be in his future.

"Yes, I just had to let her know that we would meet up with the group later," she explained, before scowling, "and then I had to get rather... _firm_ with a few of the women that wanted to know if you'd like to play Jaime to their Claire," she muttered.

He rolled his eyes. "You mean the way some of them like acting out the scenes from those books? You wouldn't catch me dead."

At his words, she dropped her eyes to the ground, but not before he caught the flicker of disappointment. Her cheeks flushed guiltily, and he narrowed his eyes, suspicion beginning to dawn.

"Hermione? You didn't really think I was going to make a prat of myself by pretending to be some Scottish bloke from the seventeen hundreds, did you? I mean, anymore than I already have, dressed in this rig. It's bad enough that I've absorbed enough from what everyone has said, that I actually have a general idea of the plot and characters."

Her eyes snapped up at him, her chin taking on a defensive tilt. "So what if I did? It looks fun, and I think you'd rather enjoy it, once you saw what I had in mind."

Ron leaned back against the rock, the rough stone scraping against the material of the jacket. "If you wanted to bandage my wounds, I could always just skip the health check after missions and come straight home, " he pointed out.

With a huff of annoyance that clearly indicated things weren't going the way she wanted them, Hermione opened the leather purse she was carrying, and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which had line after line of her tidy handwriting covering each surface. She brandished them in his face, and he would have taken a step back, if he'd had anywhere to go.

"I think you might change your mind, if you looked over some of the passages I've copied, along with my notes."

In the spirit of self defence, he took the paper, and scanned the page, his mouth open to tell Hermione that she was better off asking one of the other women to do it. Then it hit him what he was actually seeing, and his jaw sagged, color suffusing his face at the descriptive words sent a jolt straight to the sporran area. He gulped, raising his gaze to find her watching him, a mischievous light in her eyes.

"I don't think I remember them acting out any of this back at the inn," he said weakly.

Hermione gave an indelicate snort. "No, I'm sure that would've gotten your attention. So, are you feeling more...amenable?"

If he felt any more 'amenable,' the front of his kilt might raise a few inches. "What if someone sees us?" He was getting into the spirit, but he wanted all the bases covered.

She gestured at the rocky scenery spreading in all directions. "The tour bus is gone, and there's no one about for miles. And I planned on putting up a few wards, in any case."

Ron licked his lips. This trip had taken a definite turn, he hoped for the better. "Alright then, so what do we do now?"

Showing the first sign of hesitation, Hermione nodded to the papers he held. "Just...go read through those for a bit, and piece something together from that, and everything you've heard mentioned so far. it doesn't have to be _exactly_ the same, but when you come back, try to be in character. As Jaime," she clarified needlessly.

One eyebrow quirked at her. "I figured as much, seeing as Claire might be a stretch for my first time. I'll just, uh, go sit over there, and try to come up with something."

Hermione nodded happily, pleased that he had decided to go along with her. "Alright, I'll put up the wards, and maybe a Cushioning Charm, as well."

Ron moved aways off, finding a low rock with a relatively even surface to sit on. He glanced over at Hermione, who was circling the area with her wand, her lips twitching ever so slightly as she put up Wards in case of anyone stumbling upon them. While Ron preferred his books to be more adventurous in nature, or at least with something with tactics he could adapt to the field, he was finding that these books might have their merits, as well. He shuffled through the pages, taking in as much information as he could, filing away several things he definitely hoped to use, if not now, then later at the inn.

As interesting as the passages from the book were, he was equally intrigued by Hermione's notes. He blushed as she read the comparisons she made between him and Jaime; he couldn't see it, himself. Jaime was written, at least as far as he could tell, as a good looking, heroic sort of bloke. Ginger they both may be, and tall, but that was about it.

As if she had known what he would think, her next words were, ' _And neither seem to be able to see their good qualities, and downplay them if mentioned. Is this something that's typical among gingers? Going by Ron's siblings, (at least George), I'd have to say no.'_

Ron chuckled. He still thought she made him out to be more than he was, but he couldn't deny that his heart swelled up with pride every time she did. His chuckle switched to outright laughter at her following statement.

_I also wonder if it's another trait of gingers to be so well endowed, and to possess such skillful fingers. However, I won't be testing this particular theory with his siblings._

"Cheeky wench," he muttered, before growing more serious. He read the next few paragraphs several times, going over them thoughtfully.

' _But I think the reason I connected so much with the first book in this series is because I could relate, in a way. Though in my case it was voluntary, I too was in a world I didn't fully understand, and was in danger because of what I was. The scene where Jaime marries Claire to protect her vividly brings to mind the time Ron offered to claim me as a cousin to avoid Ministry persecution. I know Ron would have done the same in the book in a heartbeat, because that's the kind of person he is. He and Jaime can be incredibly stubborn and wrongheaded, but like Claire, I can't love him any less for it. I'm not as good as expressing myself to Ron, so I thought that maybe I would do better in a role play situation. It might be awkward at first, but maybe it will get easier with time, and teach me how to say the things I want to, so that eventually, I can say them as myself.'_

He had never really considered things from that standpoint. He knew Hermione couldn't always get those kinds of feelings across the way she meant to, and while he didn't hold it against her, it could be frustrating at times. And he could see how it would be easier to start off with someone else's words, until it came more naturally. Hadn't he done pretty much the same thing, with that book the twins had gotten him about witches? It had come in right handy at the beginning, though he was confident now to do without it.

' _Besides, Ron has amazing legs, and I think I'd quite fancy seeing him in a kilt.'_

The devious minx had gotten her way on that; he had resisted at first, but when she pointed out that the (few) other men in the group were kilted, and that he'd stand out more if he wasn't, he had given in. He'd only ever worn one once, when he was very small, at a Weasley family reunion long before his first year at Hogwarts, so it had taken a bit to get used to. Now that he thought about it, Her eyes usually didn't get much higher than his sporran.

Mind already turning to how he was going to pull this off, he folded the papers and tucked them into the furry pouch, glancing over to find that Hermione had wandered a few yards away, the top of her head barely visible above an outcropping of rock. This was going to be hard, since he only had a vague grasp of the character and plot, and his memories of his relatives accents were hazy at best. But he was game to give it a go, and had carefully memorized a few lines he'd like to use. He wasn't always the best when it came to words, but there had been a few that expressed his feelings better than he had been able to piece together himself so far.

Stealthily, he crept around the large, mossy stones, taking care not to dislodge their small cousins and give away his position. Auror training came in right handy, he thought smugly, although he was pretty sure his instructors wouldn't be thrilled that their lessons were being used to stalk his own wife. Rounding the corner, he watched as her eyes widened in shock, a gasp pushing between her lips as her fingers briefly fluttered in the direction of her wand before she recognized him.

"I thought I told ye to wait for me where I left ye, Sassenach," he said, before she could say anything.

Hermione shivered; his voice, which usually had a thick, Devon accent that the found pleasing, had been overlaid with a fairly good imitation of a Scottish burr. Add that to the tantalizing flash of calf under his kilt, and the effect was almost enough to get her to call the whole thing off in favor of Apparating back to the inn. Almost. But she didn't know when there would be another chance like this, or if she'd be able to work up the nerve. There was something slightly silly the whole thing, but she was determined to do it. So, taking a breath to steady her nerves, she raised her hands to rest on her hips, and called forth her shaky acting skills.

"And since when have you ever known me to stay behind, when there's the risk of you getting that stubborn head of yours cracked open?" She answered lightly, not entirely sure how bold was _too_ bold.

Ron crossed his arms loosely, cocking his head in agreement. "Aye, that's true enough; but you wouldn't do me much good if ye went and got your own throat slit. What would you've done if it had been bandits, or somesuch?"

Her first reaction was to draw her wand, but that wouldn't do, here. "I...I'd think of something," she said, her eyes pleading with him to give her something she could follow.

Getting the message that Hermione was winging it just as much as he was, he felt himself relax more. Without the pressure to get every detail perfect, he felt more at ease, and that enabled him to come up with something, with only the tiniest of pauses. He pulled his dirk, which had seemed pointless before; it was too dull to even cut butter, but Hermione had insisted that he wear the full costume.

"First of all, you should always carry a blade with ye. Do ye ken how to use it?"

"Things are a bit more civilized where I come from, so there's not much call for running about and skewering people. My talents lie more in the cleaning up the aftermath of said actions, so I'm afraid you'll have to show me."

Ron's eyes lit up, because that was exactly what he had been hoping for. He moved closer, and took her right hand.

"That should be easy enough, as long as ye swear not to use it against me," he teased, wrapping her fingers around the handle.

"Now, hold it like so, and thrust like this," he instructed, standing behind her with one hand guiding hers, while the other rested lightly on her hip.

"Like this?" Hermione asked, jabbing at the air in front of her.

He shook his head, tightening his grip. "Nay, ye dinna want to tap him, ye want to _stab_ him; you'll need more force if you want to make it sink through more than cloth."

Hermione enjoyed the feel of the heat of his hand through the thin cotton of her dress, and the way his breath puffed against the back of her neck when he spoke. His Rs vibrated in her ear, making her tingle all the way to her toes. As instructive as this was, she had been hoping for a hands on demonstration of another sort. But how could she steer it in that direction?

"I wouldn't need to know this if you would just take me along with you, instead of trying to leave me behind all the time."

"That'd be too dangerous, and ye ken there are places that I have to go alone."

"Just because I understand that, doesn't mean I have to like it. I hate when you go off, and I don't know how many pieces to expect to return."

Hermione was surprised by the sharpness in her tone, and, judging by the way Ron's muscles tensed, so was he. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized her words were true. She understood that he had to go on missions, and she was proud of him; but understanding and pride didn't stop the cold, clenching fear that slithered along her spine every time she saw him head out.

Ron turned her to face him. "Och, as long as all the important bits make it back, ye shouldn't be too bothered," he teased lightly, unsure of whether or not they were still playing.

She took the opportunity to wrap her arms around him, and burrow her face against his chest, the dirk falling to the grass with a thud.

"All your bits are important, you foolish man. And don't try to tell me that you know what you're doing," she said quickly, feeling him preparing to interrupt. "all it takes is one slip on your part, or a little more luck on theirs...I think about it every time you go."

He stroked her hair, careful not to get his fingers tangled. He knew Hermione worried, but she usually kept a good face on it. But keeping a good face on didn't mean you couldn't use some comfort every so often.

"Put it from your mind, mo duinne," he soothed, "ye always think too much, that's your problem." He hoped he had pronounced that right, but as he didn't receive a prompt language lesson, it must have been close enough to pass. In fact, she settled into him even more, so he must be doing alright.

Better than alright; while neither of them used terms of endearment frequently, she found that she might be able to get used to it on a more regular basis. There was something about the way his voice went soft when he had said it that made it highly appealing. She nuzzled her face against his chest, wishing there were less layers, kilt or no. They hadn't had many chances to mess about on this trip, since the tour left them with little energy by the time they made it back to the room (or rather, it left _her_ with little energy; Ron, being used to more physical exertion, would give a pathetic whimper before shuffling to the toilet, where she was certain he did more than use the facilities.) The desire to remedy this fact was strong, and anyway, they could always play again later. It wouldn't do to try too much the first time.

"Besides," Ron continued, oblivious to her intentions, "how could a man let anything stand between him and this lovely round arse?" His question was emphasized with a squeeze.

Hermione laughed, thankful for the way he had lightened the mood. Trust him to have picked up on that shared quirk. She tilted her head back, and ran her fingers up the base of his skull to pull him into a kiss. His lips brushed over hers, lighter than she had been expecting, and he pulled back enough so that she could catch the way his eyes had deepened to a stormy shade of blue.

"Ye werena the first lass I kissed, " he whispered, "but I swear you'll be the last."

And with that, he was kissing her again, and she joined in enthusiastically, her pleasure at that particular quote sending a spike of possessiveness through her. She clutched him tighter, the buttons on her dress digging in as she pressed against him. His hands kneaded her backside, the motion forcing her to grind her hips into his, a movement he was more than happy to return. As his fingers traced over the curves, they slowed, and then stopped altogether.

"Hermione?" He asked, breaking character in his confusion, "What kind of knickers are you wearing?"

"The same kind as you, " she answered with a smirk, her lips swollen and red.

"But I'm not...oh. Oh! _Bloody hell!"_

"I thought it would be best, in the interest of fair play, and... _.accessibility,_ " she laughed, tracing over the bulge that was throbbing against her hip.

With a growl, Ron backed her into the rock, worried for a moment that he had hurt her head. It only took a moment to take note of the way her head had unnaturally sank into the stone for him to realize that she had cast a Charm already, and then he was kissing her again. He bit her bottom lip, making her squeak as he sucked it between his teeth. Mourning the loss of her arse, his hands wasted no time in undoing the top buttons of her dress, far enough so that her breasts became visible, covered only by a light pink bra. Her nipples were already hardened, the raised peaks tempting him to touch them. Normally, he would take his time and tease them, until her head was thrashing from the light, butterfly-soft caresses. But the mood was different today, and he sensed that wasn't what she wanted. Instead, he gave one a pinch, rolling it with enough pressure calculated to bring her to the edge of pain, but not enough to cause her any real discomfort. If the way her body arched into him wasn't enough proof that he was on the right track, then the encouraging cry she gave him was. Using his teeth, he nipped and sucked at the flesh of her neck and collar bones, glancing down to watch the skin of her nipples darken from his attention.

Hermione, while very much enjoying the sensations coursing through her body, as if he sent electricity through every nerve he touched, was in no way idle herself. His hands were too busy for her to be able to remove his jacket and shirt, so she had focused on the kilt; she didn't have enough focus to undo the belt, but she had managed to raise the plaid wool up enough for her to work her hands between his legs, alternating between pulling and tugging at his shaft, and rolling his balls firmly between her palms. He bucked into her, the fluid dripping from the tip making it easier for her hand to slide over him.

Ron knew he wasn't going to last very long; he never did when it had been a week or more since the last time with her, no matter how many times he wanked in the days between. He yanked the skirt of her dress up around her hips, his right hand darting to the juncture of her thighs before it could drop back down. He was relieved to find her hot, slick, and ready, but he played with the small bundle of nerves anyway, wanting to work her as near to completion as he could before entering her.

"Those books of yours described this too, didn't they?" He asked roughly, his fingers circling her clit, "But no bloody book can ever describe what it's like to hear the noises you make when I do _this,_ or the way my cock feels when I'm deep inside, and the way you clench around me like you never want me to leave."

It was too much; it had been too many days without him, and she had needed him since they had gotten off the bus at the last stop. Seeing him in the kilt, and hearing the accent had aroused her further, but the way he was touching her nearly had her at the breaking point.

"Ron, please!" She gasped out, her lower lip sporting two indentations from where she had been biting it.

Gripping her by the back of her thighs, he lifted her up, and braced her against the rock, balancing her as he guided his cock to rest against her.

"One more thing."

"What?" She snapped in frustration, trying to wiggle closer.

He waited until she was looking him dead in the eye, before he pressed forward enough so that the head was inside.

"When I hold you between my two hands and feel you quiver like that, waiting for me to take you...Merlin, I want to pleasure you till you cry out under me, and open yourself to me. And when I take my own pleasure from you, I feel as though I've given you my soul along with my cock."

His muscles were quivering from the restraint to drive himself into her, and he had lost the accent; but the words were important, and while they weren't his, he wanted her to know he meant them.

"Does it ever stop, Hermione? The wanting?"

The fog of lust cleared from her own eyes long enough for her answer, shining bright with the same fierce love he was sure was in his own.

"No. No, it never does."

Her admission was all he needed; the words had barely left her before he was moving, his thrusts hard and barely under his control. She met him as best as she could, her hands fisting at once into his jacket, and then again at the hair on the back of his head. his breath was ragged as he tried, unsuccessfully, to pace himself, and he watched as one of her hands released him long enough to drop between them, to give her the push that he couldn't while he was holding her like this. Her head snapped back, and she rocked her hips against him almost violently, and he ground himself into her, his own release hitting him hard enough to make him dizzy.

They slid bonelessly to the ground, panting and sweaty, limbs tangling as they propped themselves against the rock. Hermione, mindful that even with Wards, it wouldn't be a good idea to linger, was the first to stir.

"So, do you still regret my choice for the trip?" She asked, idly twisting the hem of his shirt, which had come untucked, leaving him looking thoroughly dishevelled.

She waited for his answer, which came after a thoughtful moment of silence.

"Two things," he replied, voice thick with sleepy satisfaction, "First of all, your taste in literature has come a _long_ way since Hogwarts: A History. Second, next time you read this series...do it out loud."


	24. Language of the Heart (K+)

**AN. Prompt: Hermione, Quidditch Through the Ages, Ron's room.**

**Two months after the battle, Ron wonders if the kiss was a fluke. Hermione unwittingly reassures him.**

The summer sun warmed the back of his neck as Ron walked away from the Quidditch pitch, leaving Harry and Ginny to toss the Quaffle back and forth between themselves. Ginny had given him a Look, which he had correctly interpreted to mean that she wanted him to bugger off. Normally, he'd give her _some_ sort of hard time about it, but right now, it suited him to be alone with his own thoughts. He had a few things weighing on his mind, and he wanted to try to sort them out. Fred's death, of course, was crushing; but there was nothing he could actually _do,_ besides get through it as best he could, one day at a time. The rest of his family was another problem; he wanted to help them, but he didn't know if there was a way to do that. It had been two months, and they were just beginning to find some balance after stumbling around each other for awhile. Right now, his main concern was something that he had the power to resolve, if he could work up enough nerve to address it.

Hadn't that always been the fucking way of it?

With a frustrated sigh, he jerked open the door to the broom shed, and nearly tripped over George, who was sitting up against one wall with his legs sticking out into the middle. George looked up at him with a faint glare, and Ron couldn't tell if it was from irritation, or the sunlight catching him in the eyes.

"You can sod off back to the house, and tell Mum I don't need a nanny."

Irritation it was, then.

"Mum didn't send me. 'Was just putting up my broom," Ron explained, holding up the aforementioned object as if to give veracity to his claim.

George grunted. "Be quick about it, then."

Biting back a sharp retort, Ron took his Cleansweep over and carefully set it in its spot, noting that he should give it a good polishing in the next few days. He was normally quite meticulous about broom maintenance, but after not having it for nearly a year, and what with everything being up in the air the last couple of months, he had gotten out of the habit.

"That keen to get rid of me? First Ginny, and now you; if this keeps up, I might start to take it personally," he said lightly, hoping George would talk if he didn't feel like he was being pushed to open up about Fred.

It must've been the right approach, because George gave him a wan smile.

"Sorry. It just gets on your nerves after awhile, the way people hang around as if they're afraid you'll go off your nut if they take their eye off you."

"You were born off your nut, so I reckon it can't get any worse."

George laughed at this, the sound a bit rusty; it had been so long since he heard it, that Ron gave a start, feeling that something wasn't quite right. At the look on George's face, he knew what it was; it wasn't that there was something wrong with his laugh, but that there wasn't a second voice to go along with it. Ron hastened to cover things up.

"If you don't mind, can I sit down? I've been wanting to think about something, and you know how hard it is to find a place you won't be interrupted."

His brother hesitated, as if he would prefer to be alone, but didn't want to snap at him again, either.

"I'd have thought you'd rather sneak off and have a cuddle with your girlfriend."

Ron flushed to the roots of his hair; trust George to hit on his problem straight away.

"Um. She's not my girlfriend. I think. That is, I'd _like_ for her to be, but I haven't exactly..."

George stared at him in shock, and then dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

"Bloody hell, Ron! Are you trying to tell me that you kissed the girl over two months ago, and you still haven't gotten things sorted?"

Ron flopped to the ground in a miserable pile of bony limbs. "Pretty much. But it isn't as if I've had a lot of time to talk to her!"

His brother fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Which is exactly why you should be in there with her, instead of huddled in here with me. You've been barmy over the girl for years now, so get in there and ask her!"

"It's not that easy! I'd rather just sit out here and think about-"

"And you'll end up thinking of a million reasons to keep putting it off. If you don't do something, I might have to take drastic measures to help, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that."

No, no he wouldn't.

"Fine," he grunted, climbing to his feet, "I'm going, see? This is me, bravely going off to be told that it was all in the heat of the moment, and she'd rather not, thanks just the same."

"From what I hear about that kiss, it sounds too hot for just a moment's' worth," George called after him, his last word muffled by the closing door.

Reluctantly, Ron made his way into the Burrow, which was unusually quiet. His dad was at work, and Percy and Bill, as well. Charlie wasn't anywhere in sight, and he figured his mum was in her room, as she often was these days. He took his time climbing the stairs, pausing to check Ginny's room first, but found it empty. Either Hermione had gone off somewhere, which was unlikely, or she was in his room.

And that was where he found her, propped up on his bed, in a pair of shorts and what looked like one of his old t-shirts, reading a book. Of course she was reading; it was Hermione. But she hadn't read hardly anything at all, since coming to the Burrow, and Ron took this as a good sign. The book was thinner than her favorite standby, and familiar. He did a doubletake, with a hard look at the title. Was he seeing things? He looked again. No, there it was, Quidditch Through the Ages, just as he had thought. Why, of all things, was Hermione reading that?

Before asking, he took a few minutes to watch her. She was deep in the book, and hadn't heard him come in, which wasn't unusual. A small frown was on her face, the one she always wore when she was tangling with something she didn't fully understand yet. He knew, from long experience, that eventually, she would give a small, satisfied nod, once she had everything worked out.

Leaning against the door, he wondered if George wasn't right, and he should just ask Hermione flat out where they stood. Being honest with himself, he knew he was afraid of the answer. After everything that had happened lately, she was the one bright spot he had going, and he didn't think he could deal with losing that on top of the rest. The kiss had been everything he had ever wanted, but it wasn't really a sure thing, was it? People did strange things when they were excited or afraid. Or she might've meant it then, but had changed her mind since.

Who would blame her? She wouldn't be getting much. The locket may have been wrong about _some_ things, but others...well, he had said them to himself all along, hadn't he? And if Hermione actually _did_ want this to go somewhere, then she would say, right? Say something, or-

"Ron? Why are you standing there with that odd look on your face? Has something happened?"

Startled out of his own thoughts, he came in, closing the door behind him, smiling so she wouldn't worry.

"No, I was just wondering if you were sure about not needing to go back to St. Mungo's again. Are you actually bored enough to be reading about Quidditch?"

She made a huffy little sound, looking rather embarrassed. "I know exactly what I'm reading, and I have a perfectly good reason for it, too. You, Harry, and Ginny were all going on and on about Quidditch back at school. I don't imagine you'll be stopping anytime soon, and if I'm going to be spending so much time around you, I at least want to know what you mean when you start raving about Wombatty Flails!"

Ron smothered a smirk; obviously, she still had a ways to go, if she hadn't gotten that one yet. Still, why would she even want to bother? At the most, she tolerated Quidditch.

"It's never mattered to you before, has it? You've always either ignored us, or gone off and done something else," he pointed out, coming closer to the bed, his head cocked in curiosity.

Hermione tilted her chin up stubbornly. "Yes, well, I don't _want_ to ignore you, or leave. Besides, you should be able to talk about the things you like with your-with me," she finished with a stutter, her cheeks turning bright pink.

He crossed his arms, the fingers of his right hand absently tracing the old scars on his left forearm. "But you don't _have_ to, you know? I don't expect you to like Quidditch just because I do."

She snorted. "I realize that! And believe me, you won't see me out on a broom with the rest of you, and I refuse to paint myself orange for a match. I'm just learning the language so I can understand it better."

When he didn't answer right away, she shrugged, and resumed her reading, In truth, Ron had so many words jumbled up in his head, that he couldn't get them to squeeze out of his mouth. Because suddenly, it all made sense. A rather mental sort of sense, but sense all the same. When Hermione was interested in something, she threw herself into learning about it, saying that the more you knew about something, the more you appreciated it. She had done that for as long as he could remember, researching and memorizing with an intensity that was nearly sexual, and had tightened his trousers on more than one occasion. When her family went on holiday, Hermione would read up on local history and customs, on the food and locations of interest. She would learn the basics of the language, saying that having even the vocabulary of a five year old was better than having none at all. He had teased her several times, asking her if she was actually going to run with the bulls if she was so keen on reading about it. (And who did something like that? Muggles. He had tried pointing that out, but she had countered that he was being hypocritical, given his own brother worked with dragons.) Hermione had explained that while she might not want to _do_ everything she had learned, she wanted to have the ability to choose.

And now, after seven years of being around three people that could happily talk Quidditch for several days on end, she was showing a sudden interest in it herself. Or, rather, she was showing an interest in _his_ interest in Quidditch. Something she had never bothered to do when she was chatty with Krum. She was saying, in her own Hermione-like way, that she wanted to share the things that made him happy, even if she didn't particularly enjoy them herself. She was reading up on him. _She was learning his language._

Well, fair was fair, wasn't it?

Spotting her beaded bag on his desk, he went over and had a rummage through, until he found what he was looking for. Cringing at the weight, he went back to his bed, poking her in the shoulder.

"Budge over."

With a questioning expression, Hermione scooted closer to the wall. Ron stretched out on the space she had left, and held up the book in his hand for her inspection; Hogwarts: A History.

"Goes both ways, doesn't it?" He asked, holding his breath.

The glowing smile that lit up her face told him that he had made the right move, and he propped the book up against his knees, and slid his hand over to grasp hers, their fingers linking as he used his free hand to open to the first page. At the realization that the table of contents alone was five pages long, he swallowed a whimper, but manfully read on.

After all, in future arguments, he reckoned he could score a few points with the claim that he loved her more, since he had read the longer book.


	25. Sharp Dressed Man (M)

**A.N. Prompt: Hermione, Ron's dress robes, the pond at the Burrow**

**Hermione discovers that the only thing about perfection is messing it up.**

**Rated: M**

"You know, if you keep wearing that expression, Ron's going to think you're mad at him again," Ginny remarked, looking over her shoulder as she straightened the Congratulations! banner for Ron.

Hermione brought herself out of her thoughts with a jerk. "Sorry! It's just that I put in my application at the Ministry, and I'm worried about getting accepted. And I seriously doubt that Ron would take my expression personally, anyway."

Ginny hopped off of the stool with a snort. "First of all, you have nothing to worry about. Every department has been shitting their robes, hoping they'd wind up with you. Dad said so himself." At Hermione's disbelieving look, she amended, "Well, not in those exact words, but you get the idea. Secondly, _yes,_ he would, or do you not remember a few months back when he thought you wanted to break up, when you were all in a lather over your N.E.W.T.s?"

Now that Ginny mentioned it, she did remember. Ron had met up with her for a day in Hogsmeade, and she had spent the entire time sighing, fretting, and scowling. She hadn't heard a word he had said, and hadn't mentioned what was bothering her. It had given poor Ron the impression that she was tired of him, but didn't know how to break it off. Apparently, he had pouted for several days, until Harry had grown frustrated and written her.

"I remember. Harry told me he had nearly decimated the entire Chocolate Frog population, trying to drown his sorrows. But today is about Ron, so I'll just put off worrying, for now."

"Good. Mum made enough food to feed an army, but not enough for Ron's stress eating."

Hermione giggled, smoothing out her flowered skirt over her knees. For some reason, it was one of Ron's favorites, although he had never said why. But today was a special occasion, so she decided to humor him. And she _was_ proud of him, really. After a year of helping George get back on his feet, he had finally followed his dream of becoming an Auror, and had been accepted last week. He had met with his instructor today, and had gone to pick up everything he would need for training. Harry, who had joined at the beginning of summer, had met up with him in Hogsmeade to help him pick everything out. He was in charge of getting Ron to the Burrow, for his surprise dinner.

A glance at the clock told her that the others should be arriving shortly; Percy and Arthur would be coming straight from work, while Bill would stop by the cottage to help Fleur with the baby. Charlie was at the shop with George, where he was staying so as not to spoil the surprise of his visit. Molly had been cooking all day, with reluctant help from Ginny, and willing ( but not exactly stellar) help from Hermione. There was fried chicken and garlicky mashed potatoes, boats of thick brown gravy, and parsnips. There were peas glistening with butter, and fresh, crusty bread. For dessert, there was a huge chocolate cake covered in a thick layer of frosting, apple tarts, and a lemon pie. Hermione knew he would most likely have second helpings of everything, and was privately afraid he would founder.

A flare of light from the fireplace announced the arrival of Arthur and Percy, the pair of them carrying on an animated discussion about the ineffectiveness of the regulations Arthur was dealing with on his latest case.

"Arthur, is that you? Oh good, Percy, too! I need you to start setting up the table and chairs outside," Molly called, popping her head into the doorway.

"We'll be right out, dear. Just as soon as we put away our briefcases."

"Hello, Hermione! I saw you in the Ministry today; have you heard back on your applications yet?" Percy asked, setting his briefcase on the desk.

"No, but they said I should hear something within a week, so I'm not too worried, yet."

He smiled, and patted her shoulder as he followed his father out the room. "No need to worry; you got excellent marks, and your references are impeccable. I'm sure you won't have any problems at all."

Hermione appreciated his encouragement. Percy had been making more of an effort to be more personable, and it made his work related ramblings much easier to stomach. It was also nice to see him getting along better with Arthur; they had worked hard to heal the breach he had created, and he had been a help to Molly this past year, as well. While they were healing, Hermione knew that Fred's death had impacted them deeply. Both of them had greyed significantly, and there were moments that the pain in their eyes overcame them.

"Bill, everything we need ees in ze bag; we're only going to be here a few hours, not months," Fleur admonished her husband, as she stepped briskly out of the fireplace, a small bundle in her arms. Bill followed, with a bag nearly six times the size of his infant daughter.

"I just want to make sure she's comfortable!"

Fleur exchanged an amused smile with Hermione, rolling her eyes. Ginny crossed the room quickly, reaching for her niece.

"Pass her over, before Mum gets her hands on her!"

"Here she ees; I changed her right before we left, so you should 'ave a good ten minutes of dry time."

Ginny cradled the baby, making faces down at her. "Then in ten minutes, Mum can have her," she quipped.

"Are we the last ones to get here? I tried to leave early, but things take longer with a baby," Bill asked, looking around for the rest of his family.

"Not as long as _you_ make them," Fleur muttered under her breath, thinking that her husband was much more of a mother hen than a big, bad wolf.

"They're already outside," Hermione said, "Molly thought it would be too crowded in here."

There was a loud rumble, and George and Charlie rolled out of the fireplace, landing at their feet. Their hair was mussed, and they were covered in Floo lay there, stunned, blinking slowly.

"The exploding Floo powder needs some work," George noted, heaving himself to his feet and brushing off his robes.

Charlie, used to dealing with dragons, had been more surprised than anything. "Your choice of test subject could use some work, too. Next time you want to blow yourself up, feel free not to include me."

Bill was more practical. "If Mum sees you like this, you won't have to worry about being blown up. I think you'd better run upstairs for a wash, before you join the rest of us out back."

As everyone began to sort themselves out, Hermione used her wand to clean up the mess left behind on the carpet, before she went to help carry out the food. Since it was still August, the weather was still warm, but there was a nice breeze tonight to make it bearable. Molly directed everyone, while Fleur set out the plates and silverware, and Hermione placed the various bowls and platters down the center of the table. Ginny was still playing with the baby, although Molly kept glancing over, sure to swoop in when she had a spare moment. George and Charlie joined everyone eventually, slightly damp from a water fight and laughing at their lucky timing, since they didn't have to help with anything.

Everyone seemed to be relaxed and in a good mood, but Hermione couldn't help sneaking glances at her watch. Shouldn't they be there by now? Or had Harry gotten sucked into drooling over Quidditch gear, and completely forgotten that he had a job to do? Ron could be excused, since he had no idea about what was going on, but if they were much later, then Harry was going to have deal with a trio of irate women.

The sound of the back door creaking open drew everyone's attention, and they all turned, watching as Harry stepped out, with Ron a few steps behind him. He was in the middle of saying something to Harry when he stopped, catching sight of all of them; as his family erupted in a chorus of congratulations, he froze, his jaw hanging open. His face turned a brilliant shade of red when he realized what was going on, and an embarrassed grin crept onto his face as first his mother, and then his siblings came over to hug them.

If any of them noticed Hermione hanging back, they would have assumed that she was just being polite, and letting them go first. That thought, however, had never even entered her mind. It was simply that she was rooted to the spot, unable to move. She had known that he would be needing regulation dress robes, but she hadn't expected him to be wearing them. But there he was, in superbly tailored dark grey robes, that somehow made him look more muscular than she knew him to be. And, what's more, everything was straight and buttoned, his tie hanging perfectly, something that Hermione wasn't sure she had ever seen before. His new boots gleamed in the late afternoon light, and his hair, while still slightly long, had been brushed until it shone.

Her knees were weak, and she told herself not to be ridiculous as she clutched the back of a chair for support. It wasn't as if she had never seen him in dress robes before! Although...there had always been something relaxed about them before; his tie partially undone, his collar unbuttoned. Or his hair sticking up in front, where he ran his fingers through. She had never seen him so... _crisp._ It was having an odd effect on her, and she hoped no one would notice.

Everyone was talking at once, and somehow, she ended up being seated directly across from him. He smiled at her, and started to say something, but was interrupted by Charlie asking him why he was all dressed up. Ron paused in the middle of loading a pile of chicken onto his plate, and looked down at himself in surprise.

"I had to pick up my dress robes today, but they weren't ready when I first went in. By the time they were, and I had tried them on, Harry said to just leave them."

"Well, you look very nice, Ron dear," Molly said proudly, passing the basket of bread to Bill, "Doesn't he, Hermione?"

Hermione fumbled with her fork, nearly dropping it. "Hm? Oh! Oh, yes. Very nice." She spluttered, purposefully ignoring the sly looks from several members of the family.

Ron seemed blissfully ignorant of her plight, eating with gusto, yet with his mouth mercifully shut as he chewed. Although right now, she might actually appreciate a breach of manners, since the small sounds of satisfaction he was making were about to drive her round the twist. Hermione knew that there was a steady flow of conversation, because she saw Ron hastily swallow his food and respond several times, and she herself murmured something appropriate sounding at the right moments. She also knew that she managed to eat, somehow, because at one point, Ron's eyes widened as he watched her lick a small blob of frosting from the corner of her mouth. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember what was said, or how any of the food made its way onto her plate. All she knew was that suddenly, everyone was pushing back their chairs and standing up, and she was still sitting there like a sack of potatoes.

"If you keep looking at him like that, you're going to scorch a hole right through his new robes," George muttered in her ear, smirking faintly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said with a sniff, mortified at being caught.

George took the empty bowl that had held the mashed potatoes she had picked up to carry inside. "Save it. You take Ron for walkies down by the pond to get it out of your system, and I'll distract the others."

She considered arguing with him, but the offer was too good to pass up. As George began to recount an embarrassing story about Charlie helping at the shop, she sidled up to Ron.

""Would you like to take a walk?" She asked quietly, with a lift of her eyebrows.

Ron blinked around at his family, but seemed to sense that it was in his best interest to go along with her. Besides, she was wearing that little skirt that clung to her arse and flipped just right when she walked. "Sure. You were so quiet at dinner, I was starting to worry. I even splashed some gravy on the table, but you didn't even notice."

Although she knew he was teasing, she did a quick check to make sure that none had landed on his robes. But they were still as immaculate as when he had arrived, so she didn't care two figs about the fate of the tablecloth. Taking his hand, they wandered off towards the pond, both happy to finally be spending some time together after this past week, which had been busy for them both.

"Were you able to find out what day you're to report for training?" She asked, deciding that she needed to snap out of it and show more interest than she had thus far tonight.

Ron looked down at her strangely. "Yeeeeaah, I said as much earlier, remember? September first. They don't send a train for you, which is disappointing; Hogwarts sort of raises your expectations for things like that."

"I'm sorry, I've just been rather...distracted."

She did feel bad, really; today was special for Ron, and he deserved to have his achievements made over. He had done so for her when the results of her N.E.W.T.s came in, and she had determined, when they had finally gotten together, to be more vocal about her support and admiration.

"I noticed. Is something wrong, or are you just fretting over your job?" He asked, raising his free hand to loosen his tie.

"Don't!" She nearly shouted, pushing his hand away before he could do any damage.

His expression was one of complete befuddlement. "Don't what? I was just loosening my tie; you know how I hate feeling all stiff in these things."

"I know, but y-you look really good the way it is," she said, blushing profusely.

Ron's confusion grew, but then, realization burst through, like the sun parting clouds. "So _that's_ what's been distracting you?" He snickered, "And here I was, afraid that I looked like a complete tit!"

They had reached the pond, and Hermione glared at him as he preened. "I just happen to think you look nice, alright?"

Turning her to face him, he leaned in for a kiss, whispering before their lips met, "You're mental, but it's a good mental."

The kiss was meant to be short, but the fire that had been kindling in her stomach burst into flame, and when he made to move away, she reached for his tie and yanked him back. His shocked intake of breath was swallowed as she kissed him forcefully, her fingers tightening around the slick, black material of his tie. He moaned appreciatively, bringing his hands around to her shoulder blades to pull her closer. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp that secured his robes, pushing it off his shoulders when it finally came undone. She scrabbled with the slick, tiny buttons of his dress shirt, before finally giving a deft yank, which tore fabric and sent buttons flying. Ron yelped into her mouth, but she didn't relent; instead, she merely scraped her nails down his chest, parting his shirt to expose more skin.

Ron darted his tongue into her mouth, realizing that he was to have no control whatsoever, but determined to at least participate. Enthusiastically. It was a pity about his shirt, but at least-no, there went the button on the trousers, too, and the zip had never stood a chance. It was at about this point that he strongly suspected he was being ravished. It was a term you heard tossed about, but one he had never before experienced. It was almost enough to convince him to straighten his tie every time from now on, but he didn't think his wardrobe would survive.

One hand dipped into his trousers, wrapping around the bulge in his pants. A few strokes had his hips thrusting into her hand, his stomach quivering as she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down the length of his torso. Although his limbs were heavily freckled, they were less numerous from his chest to upper thighs, scattered like cinnamon constellations across his milky skin. With slightly more care than she had shown thus far, she tugged his boxers down, nipping at his thighs. She smirked to herself as she felt his fingers tangling in her hair, the digits desperately flexing, but never forcing. She took him in hand, starting off with firm, even strokes, not bothering with the light, teasing touches, as was her want. Turning her head, she placed her mouth over his sack, sucking and licking over the delicate, smooth skin.

"Bloody fuckin'...so damn hot...' _ermione!"_ Ron growled out, head lolling to the side as he fought to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss anything.

Short, blunt nails prickled her scalp, but she barely felt it as she proceeded to move her hand faster, feeling the muscles of his thighs tighten with each thrust into her palm. A torrent of swearing flowed from his lips, interspersed with pleadings for _more._ And while she was happy to oblige, it wasn't enough; her own need had grown beyond her control. Leaning back, she grabbed his wrist, tripping him enough for him to fall to his knees. With a rough shove, she had him splayed out on his back, his trousers and pants tangled around his ankles. He looked up at her dizzily, trying to grasp what what going on.

"What are you... _fuck!"_

Not bothering to enlighten him, she had reached under her skirt to pull her knickers down, letting the soaked material slide past her knees and down her calves, kicking them off to the side. Normally, Ron would have been more than happy to do his part to get her ready, but today, that was unnecessary. She was already painfully wet, and the sight of him lying there, his earlier perfection torn and dishevelled because of her, was more than she could bear. He had raised himself to his elbows, but she pushed him back, lowering herself onto him, both of them gasping as he slid into her. She rocked slowly once or twice to adjust, and then began to move faster, grinding into him with each downward movement.

When she started to swivel her hips in tight, circular patterns, his eyes rolled back into his head, her name barely recognizable in his cries. His feet were braced against the ground, allowing him to thrust up into her, while his hands gripped her hips hard enough that she knew she would have bruises later. She wasn't the only one; already, large, dark circles had formed where her mouth had been on his chest and stomach, but she didn't think he would mind.

At the moment, Ron was very far from minding anything at all; the only thing he was aware of was the hot, slick heat of his girlfriend pulsating around him, and the high, sharp cries she emitted as she rode him at the angle that would ensure he hit the perfect spot inside her. For once, she felt herself about to reach completion before Ron. To spur him on, she brought one hand up to his chest, and scraped lightly over his nipple, which she knew to be extremely sensitive. His head snapped back with a roar, and her vision melted into bright, blurry colors as she allowed herself to fall over the edge.

Her body slumped over his, both of them limp and spent, their chests heaving as their breathing started to slow. Lazily, Ron pushed her hair off of her face and neck, both areas feeling gloriously cooler. They lay there, both knowing they would have to move soon, but not yet prepared to test the solidity of their knees.

"Hermione?" Ron croaked, eyes staring straight up at the darkening sky.

"Hm?"

"I don't think my dress robes are going to be able to pass inspection now."

She wheezed with tired laughter, her head bouncing up and down with his chest as he joined her. As torn and stained as the robes were, he was probably going to have to end up buying a new set. It was only fair that she be the one to pay for them, since she had been the one to ruin these. Of course, this meant that they were going to have to be modeled for her approval...

Just how big were the fitting rooms at Madam Malkin's, anyway?


	26. Celebrity Romance (K+)

**A.N. Hello all! I have neither died nor dropped off the face of the earth; real life, along with the fact that I've been posting things on Tumblr, made me forget I hadn't been uploading them here. I've been filling the prompts that had stacked up, so today, I'm going to post 3 to make up for the absence. I'm currently working on the last two prompts, which needed to be** sliiiightly **longer to do them justice, so soon there will be several connected chapters posted here with the theme of Persuasion, with the necessary twists to keep it canon and in character. Once that and one more are done, I'll be getting to work on my next stand alone multi-chapter! (Which, yes, will probably run under 10 chapters, so those sweating at the thought of wading through 50 chapters can breathe a sigh of relief; I won't be doing that to either of us again!)**

**Prompt: Hermione and Ron see or hear the word Romione.**

**Rating: K+**

The year after the war was hard. Obviously, there was dealing with the losses they had suffered, the trauma they had endured, and rebuilding connections with family. But there was also an unanticipated aspect; reintegrating into society as a civilian. It was bizarre, not having every decision being a matter of life and death. It took time, after months of being just the three of them, to get used to being around people again. All of them were sensitive to the sounds of loud voices and footsteps in other rooms, and they felt stifled and overwhelmed in crowds.

Still, as the months passed, and they were in a healthy and safe environment, things started to get easier to deal with. That is, aside from their sudden popularity. Harry had already dealt with that to a large extent from the age of eleven, but for Ron and Hermione, it was a shock to have complete strangers prying into their personal lives, as if they had any sort of right to that information. They quickly learned to say as little as possible, because every word they uttered was quickly dissected and misconstrued by the press. At one point, things were so bad that they only went out in public while disguised, but once term started, things died down. For Hermione, it became mostly stares and excited whispers, since Hogwarts provided her some measure of protection. Ron didn't venture too far from home very often, although they seemed to flock to the shop on days he was working. But once people realized he would just disappear into the back room if they weren't actually there to shop, the novelty wore off.

So by the time Hermione graduated, the two of them thought they were pretty safe; they had even gone on three dates with no one approaching them. After everything they had watched Harry go through should have told them that the public never gives up that easily...

"Hermione? You want to eat in Muggle London today, or is Diagon Alley alright?" Ron called out, wanting to know in case he needed to exchange some money.

Hermione came out of the bathroom, putting in an earring. "Let's try Diagon Alley today; I don't feel like going back and forth, and the last time we tried it was alright."

"Sounds good. I've had a craving for one of Tom's steaks, anyways. Oh, I forgot to mention it earlier, but I need to stop by the shop. I want to show George that bookkeeping error I found, and he's supposed to be back from his buying trip today."

She picked up her purse and wand, ready to go. "That's fine, as long as we keep it short. Ever since you cut your hours back to start training, he's been pretty sneaky about getting you to work on your days off."

Ron tossed his head dramatically, running one hand through his hair. "What can I say? People will go to any lengths to bask in my presence."

With a laugh, she bent to kiss him on the cheek. "Mhmm, but today it's my turn to bask in your presence, uninterrupted by our loving friends and family. So if George gets pushy and it looks like you can't say no, I'm stepping in."

Allowing her to take his hands and pull him up from his seat at the foot of the bed, he grinned. "You know, I almost hope he does; I always like seeing you come up with new ways to put him in his place."

"Sadist. Come on, I have a list of books I want to get today, and I'm afraid that at least one may sell out before we get there."

Ron picked up his wand and groaned. "Speaking of sadists..."

The weather being good today meant that the crowds were out in full force; neither of them enjoyed that too much, but it also meant that they blended in easier, since most people were focused on getting to their destination. They tried to keep to one side of the pavement, making their way slowly, and looking into shop , as people swarmed by, both of them began to notice something curious. A large number of people had badges on their robes or jumpers, with words that they weren't familiar with. Some read 'Romione,' 'Rarry,' 'Hinny,' and 'Harmony.' At least the last one was an actual word. Some peace advocacy group, perhaps?

"Ron, have you noticed the badges? I know I'm not up on the latest trends, but you think I would have remembered this one."

He shook his head, politely nodding as a group of them passed by, giggling as they caught his eye. "Nope, no clue. I'd almost think they were some type of team badge, but everyone knows that Quidditch is the only sport worth the trouble, and I would've recognized any of the names."

"That, or political, but we'd know about that, too." She shrugged. "Oh well. I suppose I'll find out when I read those magazines Ginny lent me."

They didn't give it much thought after that, although they continued to see them as they picked up Hermione's books and browsed through the Quidditch supplies. Even over lunch, they saw several of them watching their table and whispering avidly. But since none approached them for autographs or to ask questions, it was fairly easy to ignore.

"Did you want to stop anywhere else before we drop by the shop?" Ron asked, settling the bill while Hermione laid out the tip.

"No, I think that's it. Besides, I was hoping we could get the house to ourselves for a little while this afternoon, since Harry and Ginny said they'd be staying out late..."

Ron shoved his wallet back into his pocket. "Well, if I had needed incentive to make this a quick visit, that was it!"

Hermione mock fluttered her eyelashes at him. "You mean an afternoon with me is more interesting than bookkeeping? Flatterer!"

He took her hand as they left the Leaky. "Love, I'll go one better," he said seriously. "An afternoon with you is even more interesting than taking inventory!"

The shop was busy with the lunch break crowd, so it took several minutes for them to work their way into the shop far enough to spot George. Over the heads of the customers, Ron waved an arm to get his brother's attention. When George caught sight of them, his smile froze. Saying something quickly to Verity, he left the counter to join them.

"Ron! And Hermione! Great to see you both...I didn't think you'd be in today?"

Ron frowned at George's shifty expression. "Alright, what did you do?"

George gathered himself up, looking affronted. "Do? What do you mean? I haven't done anything!"

"Come off it, I know that look. I'll find out, so you might as well confess."

"Merlin, Ron, you sound like Mum!"

"And with even less patience. Spit it out."

"Is that Harry and Ginny?" Hermione asked, craning her neck to look down an aisle. "I think it is! I'm going to go say hello."

"Uh, maybe you shouldn't-" George began, but both Hermione and Ron were already walking away, so he hurried to catch up.

As they got closer to their friends, Ron and Hermione could see they were standing in front of a display of the mysterious badges.

"Hey you two, I didn't know you were going to be here today!" Hermione said, coming up behind them.

Both turned in surprise, but smiled.

"Yeah, Gin wanted to pick up a few things before we go for a fly. But what are you doing here? Don't tell me George talked Ron into coming in for work."

"Not bloody likely; I was here after hours last night, so today's mine," Ron snorted.

"Be sure to enjoy it, because you'd better show up at the Burrow for brunch tomorrow. You missed last week, and now Mum's fretting that we'll hardly ever see you, like Charlie."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I had a training exercise last week! They don't exactly let us pop back home to mummy whenever we want, you know. Don't worry, we'll both be there."

Hermione fingered one of the garish pins curiously. "Do either of you know what these mean? We've been seeing them all over today, but we haven't been able to figure it out."

Harry and Ginny shared a smirk, before Ginny turned a wicked grin on a very quiet George.

"You mean George hasn't told you about his new marketing ploy? Harry and I were just saying that we all really deserve a cut."

A shiver went down Ron's neck. Oh, fucking hell...nothing good could come from one of George's harebrained marketing schemes. Apparently, Hermione had the same idea, because she had fixed George with a beady look, her hand straying towards her wand.

"Explain."

George looked around for an escape, then seemed to give up. "Weeeeeeeeell, you know how in all of those Muggle magazines, whenever two famous people get together, they mash up the names?"

Hermione slowly closed her eyes, bringing her fingers up to rub the bridge of her nose. "You didn't. Surely you didn't. This is some elaborate prank."

"I admit, the idea wasn't originally mine-some of the smaller papers started it. But I saw a chance for profit, and let me tell you, they've sold really well! Of course, to show my support, I don't sell any of the 'hopeful' pairings that some people have."

Bemused, Ron looked at one of the badges. "Romione. So, that'd be Ron and Hermione, I guess?"

"We were just deciding if we should get some," Harry said.

"What did the two of you get stuck with? Garry?"

Harry made a face. "Hinny, actually."

Ron stared at them both. "Alright, Romione might be a little odd, but at least it doesn't sound like some sort of chicken."

"You know, George, if you weren't family, I'd be tempted to take some kind of legal action."

"Does this mean I should cancel the shirt orders?" George asked mournfully.

Hermione was not enamoured of the idea. She didn't like their privacy being invaded, or the nosy speculation about their relationships. However, she was an immensely practical person. With a sigh, she opened her eyes, and began to walk towards the door.

"Ron and I are leaving to enjoy the rest of our day. Tomorrow afternoon, the five of us can sit down and discuss terms of use."

George sagged with relief. "Dodged a hex there," he muttered under his breath, as Ron passed him on his way to follow Hermione.

Harry laughed. "Don't you believe it! She'll have all night to draw up contracts, and she'll be ruthless."

Loud footsteps could be heard, and Ron appeared around the corner, coming at them quickly. He picked up a badge, and stuffed it in his pocket, before turning back.

George called after him. "Oi! Where do you think you're going with that?"

Ron paused to look over his shoulder with a philosophical shrug. "Well, I figured it was about time I started rooting for a winning team."


	27. Of Birds and Bees (T)

**Prompt: After the war, Ron and Hermione discuss sex.**

**Rating: T**

"Ron? Oi! Ron! I asked if you wanted to come with us to see Teddy and Mrs. Tonks?"

Ron, who had been watching Hermione turn the pages of her book for the past twenty minutes, nearly flipped off his bed at Harry's voice.

"Huh? What?" He asked, realizing he had probably missed an entire conversation. Not that anyone would laugh; they were all doing that, these days.

"Your mum is taking me and Ginny over to visit Teddy and Mrs. Tonks. Do you and Hermione want to come, or no?"

Oh, yeah. He had forgotten about that. Honestly, that was the only way they had been getting Mum to leave the property lately, which Ron could only see as a good thing. On the other hand, he didn't really want to go himself. It was hard listening to the women talk about the people they had lost, and while Teddy was pretty neat as far as babies went, it made an ache form in Ron's stomach to look at him. He knew it was stupid, and it would fade in time, but every time he saw Teddy he remembered Lupin and Tonks, and he would get mad at their loss all over again. That inevitably led to thoughts of Fred, and he just...he just wasn't feeling up to it today. He glanced over at Hermione. But if she was going...

But Hermione shook her head. "Not today, I think. I'd sort of like a chance to talk to Ron, if you don't mind?"

Ron shook his head.

"Please send our best to Mrs. Tonks, Harry."

"Alright. Ron, your mum said that we'll be back in time for dinner, and your dad's in his shed in case something happens."

What could possibly happen at this point? "See you later then."

With a wave, Harry closed the door, leaving them alone.

He was alone with Hermione.

His _girlfriend_ Hermione.

She was alone with him in his room, and for the first time, he was able to pull himself out of his depression enough to really, really take in the significance of that. Not that it was the first time they were alone together. Just the first time that at least one wasn't highly upset, or asleep, or something else completely at odds with any romantic scenarios. Most of the time lately had been given over to planning their trip to get her parents, and he could still count on one hand the number of times they had kissed. Not that he minded _too_ much; there was definitely something to be said for quality over quantity. Of course, he was willing to discover what quality in quantity would be like...

Hermione shifted next to him, and he blinked at the movement. They had been sitting on his bed, with her leaning against the headboard and reading, and him slouched at the end by her legs while they had talked to Harry and Ginny earlier. Now she was putting her book away with a sigh, faint lines forming between her eyes.

"Ron, I think...we need to talk."

It was like lightning had struck his heart. Already? What had he done? Surely he couldn't have cocked things up this quick! Normally a little more time was needed, even for him. Had he said the wrong thing? Been too depressed? Was she bored with him already? He'd already lost so much this year; the thought of losing her, too...

"Ron, I'm not chucking you."

His head whipped up. "You're not? Wait, how did you know-"

"Because you just said, 'Please don't chuck me yet.' I said we needed to talk, not that we needed to break up."

Okay. Right then. That was better. Wasn't it? Or did this just mean he was in trouble, but on probation? No. Talk. He could do this.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Hermione plucked at his quilt, unusually not meeting his eye. That couldn't be a good sign. Normally when she had something to say, you couldn't escape The Look.

"Well, it's...about our sleeping arrangements when we get to Australia," she finally said.

Their what? Oh. He hadn't really thought of that too much. He had just sort of supposed they'd go on the way they had; except for the first two nights back, Hermione had Apparated up here to sleep each night, although Harry was almost always over in the camp bed, so they weren't really alone. Both of them had needed the contact, and he didn't really fancy going without it, but if that's what she wanted...

"Um, I know there's no way to pay for more than one room, but I can always kip on the floor if you want-"

"What? No!" Hermione said quickly, her face making it clear she was appalled at the idea. "No, that's...that's not the direction I was planning on things going. I just-oh, hang it all! Sex, Ron, I was talking about sex!"

Ron felt his entire body flush a brilliant shade of red, and wasn't sure if he was going to combust, or melt into a puddle right there on the mattress. He couldn't even doubt what he had heard, since she had said it twice. Now, sex was a subject he had spent a considerable amount of time thinking about. Sex was also a subject he was quite willing to put into practice. Talking about it, however, was something that the noodly coils of his brain was having a hard time wrapping themselves around.

"What about it, exactly?"

Hermione began twisting and plucking at his quilt with an energy that had him fearing for the seams.

"Everything, really. We've never talked about it, and now that we're going to be spending a good deal of time alone while we look for my parents, I think maybe we should be clear on the subject."

He cocked his head in confusion. What, exactly, was there not to be clear on? There were only so many options for what goes where, after all. The only thing there was to be clear on, in his mind, was whether she wanted it or not. He was hoping, but he wasn't expecting. He was ready to spring forth (quite literally) as soon as she gave the word, but if that wasn't an option, it wasn't like he wasn't used to taking care of himself.

"Do you not want to?" He asked.

"It's not that I...of course I...Oh, I knew this was going to be harder for me than for you!" She huffed.

"Hermione, you've lost me. I think this would be just as hard for me, if I had a clue what was going on!"

She bit her lip, and Ron gulped, jerking his gaze away. The sight combined with the subject at hand was a bit too much.

"I'm nervous, alright? I-I want to, but...it's going to be my first time. And I'm a little afraid of, oh, I don't know! Everything, I suppose. That it'll hurt. That I won't know what to do," her voice faded into a small whisper, "That I won't be any good and you'll hate it."

"First of all, how could you do anything that I'd hate? Grip me over the trousers right now, and I'd probably make a mess. Why do you think this is any different for me than it is for you?"

Hermione glared at him, before turning her head to the side as she snapped, "As much as I'd like to forget sixth year too, it still happened."

Oh.

Ooooooooohhhhhhhh.

She thought...well, damn.

"Hermione, me and Lavender...we never...you know."

"Oh please, Ron! I had eyes, I saw the two of you in the Common Room; it doesn't take much imagination to guess what went on when you were alone!"

At the pain in her voice, his shoulders slumped. Merlin, he had really fucked things up.

"Look, I know I was a prat-no, I was a bastard, no two ways about it, to both of you. If i'd known...well, if I'd just had some sense, I would've made better choices. But I swear, things never got that far."

She shot him a skeptical look. "Seriously? In all that time, you never..."

"Never!"

"Just how far _did_ you go, then?"

He dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing at his face roughly. "Fuck, Hermione, do I really have to say it?"

Her head jerked in a short nod. "It's not like I _want_ to hear all the details, you know. But if I don't know, I'm just going to keep imagining all these different... _things,_ and it's going to be harder to get over, and even harder to actually _do_ them."

"Shite. Alright, there was some groping, and a little grinding, and Ifeltherknickersonce. Alright?" The rest of her words finally caught up with him. "Hermione, you don't have to do any of that, if you aren't ready. It's not-it's not some sort of competition."

"I know that! I just fully intend to do everything she did better, that's all!"

He held in a laugh at that, knowing she would take it the wrong way, and her wand was within reach. Hermione had a competitive streak a mile wide.

"It already is, you know. Better, I mean."

She snorted. "Sure it is. We've barely even snogged, and you're saying it's better than...more than snogging? Flattery is nice but I prefer honesty."

He heaved a huge sigh, his head thumping against the wall with a crack. "I am being honest! Sure, I would definitely, _definitely_ like to do more, but it's...it's different. With Lavender, I couldn't just...let go and enjoy it. At first, I was too mad at you and trying to prove that someone might actually fancy me," he paused at her wordless screech of frustration at his thickness, "And then once I wasn't mad, I was feeling guilty, and after that, I-well, it just never felt like being with you does, even when I was trying to pretend it was enough."

Hermione blushed, a tiny, pleased smile forming. "Really?"

He nodded vigorously, unable to find the words.

"Alright, then, I think we can leave all that in the past where it belongs."

Thank Merlin; he was more than happy not to have to think about it again, much less talk about it.

"So that just leaves how to handle things while we're gone."

Ron shrugged. "Well, obviously we don't have to do anything at all, but if we do, I know the Charm for me, and I can't imagine you not knowing the one for witches."

"I do. And I'm on the Potion, so there's all that taken care of. Other than that, I guess we just...do whatever comes naturally?"

He grinned. "I can think of several things that sound natural!"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. But...I might not want to, you know, go all the way at first. Is-is that alright with you?"

He blinked at her. "'Course it is! Honestly, Hermione, it's not like it takes much to please me. I could hump your leg and be happy, if you want to get right down to it."

At the mental image, she choked on a laugh. "I think we can do a _bit_ better than that!"

"Something that doesn't make me seem quite so pathetic? I'm open to that."

With a coy expression, she leaned back. "You know, while going all the way isn't an option today, I wouldn't mind...exploring things a bit, while we have some time alone."

The words were barely out of her mouth before Ron had crawled to the head of the bed, leaning over her with a lustful gleam. "Brilliant, you are!"

She giggled as he nuzzled her neck. "Just remember that your Mum will be back in time for dinner!"

He paused momentarily to leer down at her.

"Luckily, I've always been the sort to enjoy dessert first."


	28. Between Man and Beast (K+)

**Prompt: A slightly long** fic **of the relationship between Ron and Crookshanks through the years.**

**Rating: K+**

_1993_

Scabbers is cowering in my pocket, and the way he's humped up and trembling in my lap has had several people give me the side eye before hurrying out of the Common Room. I'd laugh, but I'm too busy glaring at that fucking flat faced fuzzball, who keeps leaning forward and licking his chops at Scabbers. Of all things, why did Hermione have to pick a bleeding _cat?i_ Is it some sort of delayed revenge from first year? Has she been acting like my friend all this time to lull me into a false sense of security? This wouldn't be a problem if she had just gotten an owl.

Speaking of owls, why can't this traitor of all gingers go after those? There's plenty of them flying about, nice and fat. But NooooOOOOooooo. He has to go after my scrawny, useless, half dead rat. Scabbers is no prize, but he's mine, and damned if I let that jumped up toupee eat him.

He ate him.

He fucking did!

After all the trouble I went to carry him everywhere, or hide him away when I couldn't...After fighting with Hermione for ages (have you ever held a debate with a brick wall? It's more reasonable), after taking my mum's place as Champion Nagger trying to get her to corral her cat, he's found a way to do it.

Look at him, slinking around with that smarmy look on his face-is that blood on his whiskers? Bet it is. Normally I like cats just fine, but right now I'm just _praying_ to get my hands on a right huge dog...that'll show him!

I hate being wrong. It's bad enough when I am with Hermione, but now her cat, too? He's just sitting there at the foot of my bed, staring at me. Well, I know when I'm beat.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? But how was I supposed to know? Couldn't you've scratched a message in your litterbox or something? Ah-Ah! Retract the claws from my good leg, thank you! It was an honest question!"

He settles down between my legs, one paw resting on top of my shin. His claws are out, but he doesn't have them in me; as long as I hold the leg absolutely still, I'll be fine.

Looks like I'm on probation.

_1994_

Hermione's here. At the Burrow. Dunno why, but it makes me sort of nervous. Which is stupid. It's probably just the excitement for the World Cup; never thought I'd actually be going to one myself, let alone being able to treat my mates.

The floor shakes from some distant explosion likely caused by the twins, and a low, growling rumble emerges from under my bed. Why did she bring the cat? Alright, I guess it makes sense, seeing as we'll be going directly to school from here, and her parents can't exactly send him by owl post. Still, why did he have to pick under my bed as a safe place? Hermione went on about cats needing a while to feel safe in new places, and I get that, but there are at least a hundred others that would be better. At least Hermione's the one cleaning his box; Mum's drummed the 'Be Polite to Guests' bit into my head enough times, but that's where I draw the line.

It wasn't so bad, during the day, but now it's night, and I can practically feel him sitting under me and breathing, staring through the mattress. I shake my head. It isn't his fault. It's more like, the last animal to share a room with me-one with hair, sorry Pig-was the actual scum of the earth snuggling up to my neck. Maybe I'm afraid that if I look under there, I'll find a forty year old naked fat man sneering back at me.

There's shuffling now. He's coming out. Maybe he wants to go down to Hermione? A heavy thump on me feet tells me no. He's digging at the sheets, and now he's curling up-am I really going to have to sleep with my legs drawn up like this all night? I nudge him with a toe, and he growls. Looks like it, if I want to keep my limbs intact. Could be worse, I suppose.

Wish I hadn't thought about that fat man, though.

She has a date.

She _says_ she has a date.

I've tried for days to figure out who it could be, with no luck. Everyone we know is already going with someone-'cept Harry, and I _know_ iit's not him-but everyone else in our house has a date, and she doesn't really know many people that well outside of it, right? Maybe a couple from her other classes, but I've already determined that they have dates, too. I'm trying to think of some more options, but it's hard with Crookshanks sitting there, growling at me, as if I've stomped on his tail.

"What's eating you? I thought we'd moved past all this?"

I throw myself back right sharp as he hisses at me; I think I'll ask Hermione if he's had all of those shot things next time I see her.

Well, that tears it! If she think she can...if she thinks she can...I don't know what, but if she thinks she can get away with whatever it was she did, then she has another thing coming! Hermione's a brilliant witch, so why can't she see sense? And what was all that bollocks she screamed at me before storming off upstairs? I _did_ bloody well ask her! What was I supposed to do, ask in sonnet form or something?

I yank off the hideous robes, throwing them in the corner to be burned later. I'm so hacked off from the fight I just had that my fingers are shaking, and I get it tangled up over my head. Suddenly, a hefty weight knocks into me, and searing lances of pain run up and down my bare back. I scream, but it takes awhile to get my arms free of the shirt, and by the time I do, Crookshanks has left several new welts on my side.

"What the hell is your problem?" I yell at him, now that he's back on the floor, his hair puffed out enough to make him look three feet wide.

I can feel tiny trickles of blood down my skin, and I know I'll have to see to it before I can get in bed. I don't move yet, though, because he looks like he might take another go at me.

"Get out of here! Merlin, you're as mental as your owner!"

He curls his lip at me, hisses in a way I'd swear was spitting, and stalks out the door. I'd almost think Hermione had sicced him on me, but I know she wouldn't send anyone else to do her dirty work. If she wanted to tear a strip out of me, she'd have come in and done it herself. Not that she has any reason, I think glumly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Or that's what I try to tell myself.

But it's hard to ignore the fact that the feel of claws sinking into my flesh hurt less than that look in her eyes...

_1995_

I hate this house.

It's dark and creepy and smells weird, and you can almost _feel_ some of the awful things that must have gone on here still sort of...lingering. That bloody elf doesn't help matters. Hermione is determined that we be nice to him, but I've seen the way he looks at her. Makes my blood run cold.

Almost as cold as this igloo of a room I'm stuck using.

Ginny and Hermione are in the kitchen, and I know I should be too, but if I go down Mum will just have another hundred things she wants me to do. There's a squeaking sound as my door pushes open, and I jump a little, reaching for my wand. I relax. It's just the cat. He's been wandering around the house since we got here, and just like back home, for some reason he ends up in my room a lot. He's not exactly warm and cuddly, but he isn't trying to tear my face off, either.

"You should go down. Hermione worries about you, and I'm not so sure that elf won't try to skin you alive just to spite her."

Did he just roll his eyes at me? If cats can, then he just did. Ungrateful little wanker.

Now what is he doing? His arse is in the air, wiggling, like he's about to-

He pounces on something in the far corner, and I crane my neck to see. It's a spider. A great hairy one. I feel sick just looking at it, although I'm happy to see it's definitely dead. Crookshanks trots out into the hall, and just as I think he's gone for good, here he comes back. He then proceeds to the the same thing all around the room, and on the fifth spider (why didn't someone do a bit of pest control before sticking me in here?), I realize he's destroying the spider population in my room for me. Alright, maybe he's not such a bad cat to have around.

I woke up this morning. And when I put on my shoe, I found the beast had left a spider in it. Damn him.

At least it was one of the smaller ones.

Harry's with Snape, And Hermione threatened me earlier that if I didn't start my essay itonighti/, she won't help me with it later. Wish I could avoid it, but at least when she gets busy, I can stare at her without her noticing. Fuck, that sounds creepy as hell, but that's not how I mean it! It's just...she's pretty, alright? And she has all of these expressions, and I sort of want to memorize them, which is hard to do when you know you have a gormless expression on your face and you could have to explain it at any minute.

I walk down the stairs, and see she already has everything set up in the Common Room. Most everyone is already up in the dorms, and the three first years that are left take a look at me and scuttle out. Huh. They must've been here earlier when I tore into a few gits muttering about Harry. Have to remember to do something soon so they won't think they're in danger of me chewing their faces off or something.

Hermione's on the sofa, and I walk over, nearly tripping a little as she looks up and smiles. Fuck, I have it bad, and she doesn't even have a clue. I start to go over and sit in the chair across from her, but there's something tugging at my trousers. I look down, and Crookshanks has my left trouser leg between his teeth, pulling at me.

"Oi! Gerroff!"

He doesn't. Of course. Mum'll have a fit if I tear these, so I shuffle along until I'm by the sofa. I start to sit, and he lets go, but only to jump up and half knock me out of place, so instead of sitting at the end, I'm right in the middle. Smack against Hermione.

"Crookshanks, what's gotten into you!" Hermione says, smiling at me apologetically. "Move out of Ron's seat!"

"Ah, don't worry, he's fine. Unless you want me to move."

I almost think she's turned a bit red, but she turns enough that her hair falls into her face, and I can't tell.

"No, Not...not at all. Just don't let him bother you. Ready to get started?"

Bother me? Somehow I've ended up with my thigh pressed up against hers, close enough that I can smell her hair, and she thinks I'm _bothered?_ Well I am, but not in the way she's thinking. As I listen to her, I let my left hand drop down on top of Crookshanks' head. It's huge, and he gives my hand a headbutt, so i give him a good pat.

Not such a bad cat, really.

_1996_

I think Hermione needs to have her cat examined.

One minute he's doing that odd, yanking me around by the trouser leg thing he's been doing for the past year, and then the next he's hissing and spitting at me like he'd like to take a strip of skin off me. What've I done? Every time I think things are alright between us, he changes moods faster than Hermione changes library books. What's that mental Muggle thing Dean was telling me about? Oh yeah. It's like Russian Roulette, with teeth.

Slowly, I edge down the stairs, wondering what direction the wind is blowing today. He's sitting on the arm of the sofa, and Hermione looks around when he leans forward.

"Ron? What on earth are you doing? You look like someone out of a bad spy film!"

I'm not entirely sure what she means, but I do know I must look ridiculous. Quickly I straighten up, and try to cross the room like a normal person.

"Nothing. Just seeing if he's on guard duty today."

She laughs. Laughs!

"Why on earth would he be guarding me from you? He knows you're safe!"

"I've given up trying to figure him out," I say, having a seat. Looks like it'll be a good day.

Maybe he'll stop this nonsense soon, the way some cats will race around a room with their eyes all wild, then suddenly sit down like nothing has happened. I look at him. He's staring at me.

I'm being judged, and I can't help but feel I've been found wanting.

I shut the curtains to my bed around me, and look down at my hands. They still sting, and I can see that they're still bleeding a little from where Hermione unleashed those bloody birds on me. Fuckit. Not my fault. Had every right...if she'd just... _fuckit._ Gonna go to sleep, don't want to think.

I can hear everyone up and moving around, but I just want to lie here with my eyes shut. Not really sure what I'm going to do today, but I'm not saying I'm sorry. I finally got a good snog in, and if that pisses Hermione off, then that's just too fucking bad. Let her stew for a few days, see how she likes it. Not so pathetic and fanciable now, am I? I roll over and open my eyes...and look straight into the eyes of a huge, bloody, dead rat.

I scream and throw myself back, half falling out of the bed and tangling myself in the curtains. Dean and Seamus laugh, like the twats they are, and even Neville, who's asking if I need help, is fighting back a grin. Harry's very carefully not looking at me, and something tells me it has more to do with yesterday than trying to be sensitive about me dangling here arse over head.

"You alright, Ron?" He asks, still looking at the floor.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

I get myself free, and pop back behind the curtains, Vanishing the rat as fast as I can. I don't even have to wonder how it got there. Obvious, innit? Hairy bastard fights dirty. Her cat, guess I can only expect him to be on her side. Funny, but it makes me feel as if I'd done something wrong. But I haven't.

Have I?

_1997_

We're really going to do this.

I'm fucking scared.

It's mental.

We don't have a chance, if you really think about it.

Won't stop me, though.

It's gotta be done, and I'll be damned if they do it alone.

I'm lying here, trying to keep these dark thoughts from creeping around my head, when the door creaks open. Again. I wait, listening to the sound of nearly silent feet coming towards my bed, then brace myself for the impact of about twenty-five pounds of Kneazle cat landing in my middle. I sit up, before he can start slapping my face.

"Same as usual?" I whisper, and he meows almost sadly, nudging my arm.

"Right. Let's go, then."

Every night since she's gotten here, see, Hermione's been having bad dreams. Not that she'd tell anyone. No, she just slips out of Ginny's room, and wanders downstairs. Sometimes she curls up with a book in the sitting room, or goes to the kitchen for a hot drink. Other times she goes outside to walk around, even though she really shouldn't. No one should. It's not safe.

And every night, Crookshanks makes the trip up to my room, wakes me if I'm actually asleep, and leads me to her. Sometimes, I just sit with her. Sometimes, we talk. Or walk. Whatever she needs. Dunno why he decided to get me, but I feel like maybe this is something he trusts me to do. He watched me real close at first-had been, since about the time I broke up with Lavender-but now he almost seems to welcome it when I get close to Hermione.

Crookshanks, as much as I hate to admit it, is smart. Real smart. And I think that maybe _he_ thinks that this is our job. Helping Hermione, that is. And...that's nice. Might sound stupid, him being an animal and all, but I'm glad that he trusts me to do it. Him and me, we've had a rocky relationship over the years, and I reckon he knows what a prat I can be. But I know he loves Hermione, and is protective of her-got the scars to prove it-and the fact that he chooses me to do this means a lot.

I follow him downstairs, watching his bushy tail disappearing around corners as he leads me to her, his ginger fur almost glowing in the moonlight. The two of us might not always see eye to eye, but there's one thing we agree on, and it's pacing in the front yard. I look down at him, and he uses his head to push me towards the door. I step outside, and look back.

"Thanks."

He raises a paw.

_1998_

I'm tired.

And sick.

Not the physical kind of neither. Nothing that a night's sleep or a potion will cure.

I'm the kind of tired and sick that goes straight to your soul and settles in for a good, long stay.

"Where's Crookshanks?" Hermione asks.

My family freezes, and I almost throw up. _Shite_. This can't be happening; we've just gotten back from hell, and if Hermione's lost him on top of everything that's just happened, I'm afraid she'll crack. Hell, just thinking about it makes me want to howl, and he's not even mine.

Before anyone can answer, a bright orange blur races around the house and launches itself at her, and it's pretty damn lucky I had ahold of myself, because my arm was almost halfway up to blast it with my wand. Hermione is sobbing and laughing, and it's almost drowned out by the sound of purring.

At least one fucking thing has gone right, and while I don't smile, I don't need to throw up as badly.

Harry mutters in his sleep as the door opens, but he doesn't wake up. Lucky. I'm not sure when i last slept; usually I stay awake until I pass out, then wake up from the nightmares. Usually only get a couple of hours at once. Starting to tell.

Soft padding sounds, and then a lead ball to my gut. Hermione's been trying to sleep in Ginny's room, but it just isn't working; after about five nights, it should be obvious it isn't going to. Gonna talk to her about that; Mum isn't going to notice if she stays up with me, and I think both of us would do better.

I'm not moving fast enough for him, and he moves up to stand on my chest.

"I'm coming," I whisper, running my hand over his back. "What about you, boy? How are you doing?" He cocks his head to the side, as if surprised I'd ask. "Can't have been an easy time of it, with Muriel." He gives a little growl at that, and I laugh. "Right, that's about how we all feel. Alright, up off of me, and we'll go."

He hops off, and once again, the two of us are on our nightly rounds.

It's too much.

Thought I was alright.

I'm fucking not.

Tried to hold it in.

Tried to be strong for everyone.

Now I'm out here in the shed, sobbing like the world's biggest tit.

I don't know what to do, but I don't want to bother anyone. Got their own shite to deal with, don't need mine shoveled on top. Feels like my chest is about to burst open, and I press my mouth to my arm to smother a scream. Then I hear something. I pause.

"Crookshanks, what on earth has gotten into you? Are you alright? Why are you-ow! Don't nip me, I'm going, but why-"

Her words are cut off as she opens the door and sees me. We stare at each other a moment, before she's suddenly knocked forward. I look down, and Crookshanks is pushing her in my direction. Before I know it, she's kneeling in front of me, her arms around me while I cry into her neck. Feels like poison being washed out of me, and all at once, I don't feel quite so much like I'm drowning. Trying to take a deep breath, I look over her shoulder. My brilliant girlfriend's brilliant cat is looking back at me.

He raises a paw.

_1999_

I cackle under my breath as I set the table. For the first time in weeks, I have Hermione all to myself. What with our work schedules and living with two other people, privacy is almost impossible. I frown. Almost all to myself. I look around, but he isn't here.

But I know he isn't far away.

You'd think things would be good between us.

Mates, and all that.

But no.

Put him in a set of ancient, ugly dress robes, and he'd be me at the Yule Ball.

Same expression and everything.

Cat's fucking jealous of me, and I don't know why.

But since we've all moved in together, I'm a target of Harassment. He sheds on my good clothes-yes, on purpose-and I have to check my shoes every morning for hairballs. He steals small things of mine and hides them. He pissed on my collection of Quidditch magazines. And every time I try to sit with Hermione, he wedges himself between us. And what does Hermione do? She feels sorry for _him!_

She claims he feels neglected, and I can't bear that smug smirk he gives me when she cuddles him to her chest. Yeah, I know he's not interested in her like that, but he knows I _am_ , and he takes a perverse pleasure in thwarting me. I told Hermione if anyone should feel neglected it was me, but she just rolled her eyes and called me an insensitive toad.

Got even, though.

Charmed his favorite cushion with a citrusy smell, now he can't go near it.

See how it feels, you little bugger.

_2001_

Finally, a flat of our own!

I love Harry and Ginny, but things were getting cramped.

Wish we could've left the cat with them, but Hermione wasn't pleased when I suggested it.

She's popped out to the shops to pick up something for supper while I get some of this stuff unloaded and put away, but now I think I'll take the opportunity to lay down the law. I look over at Crookshanks, who's been monitoring the proceedings from the windowsill.

"Alright," I say, with a surety I don't entirely feel,"Let's get this straight right now." I glare at him, and he glares back. "I put up with your shite at Grimmauld Place, but I'm telling you now, that's all over. I don't know what the fuck your problem is. I really don't. But it ends now. I know you've got Hermione fooled, but I won't live like this. No more of your little surprises. No more getting between us every time I try to get close. It bloody well ends now!"

He lifts his lip enough to expose one tooth.

Ready to scream, I start pacing, running my fingers through my hair. "Why is it like this? I know things got off to a rough start, but we fixed that. And I know I was a prat with Hermione for a while, but you have to admit, tiffs aside, I've been better! And I thought things were right with us, too. What are you trying to prove? Why do you think I'm such a threat to you that-" I stop.

Slowly, I turn, and look at him, remembering, hazily, what Hermione told me when she first got him. No one had really wanted him. Every time he went to a new home, someone sent him back, for one reason or another.

Taking my life into my hands, I go to stand in front of him, leaning until our heads are level.

"Oi. Look 'ere. Come on, you don't think...you don't think I'd really try to send you away, do you?"

He turns his head to look out the window.

"Are you completely mental?" I wouldn't do that! If for no other reason, than because i know how much you love Hermione. It'd gut her to lose you; do you really think I'd make her go through that?"

Slowly, his head turns so he's looking at me over his shoulder.

From the corners of my mouth, I let out a harsh breath. "Look, I wouldn't do that to either of you, but...I don't like how things are with us. We were good there, for awhile, you know? We got along. We helped Hermione. I'd even started to think you might actually like me. And then it went right back to where we were in the beginning, and...well, it hurt. So can we just...not? I don't mind having you around. You can be head cat, and I can promise no other pet crosses the door without your approval."

His ears perk up. He's interested.

"And I don't even mind if you get in bed with us when we aren't, you know, _busy._ So can't we just give it a try?"

I hold my breath. It's up to him. We can get along, or I can look forward to spending the next several years wearing what amounts to a cat urine cologne, if he keeps it up with my shoes and socks.

With a sense of deliberation, he reaches out a paw, and gently pats my forehead.

"Sorted."

_2002_

"Ron? I'm getting ready to leave. Need anything before I go?" Hermione asks from the doorway of our bedroom. I'm lying here, slowly dying.

"No," I croak, "You go on. I'll try to be here when you get back."

"You should have gone on stage, love. It's just the flu; I'll check in at lunch. Oh! And while I'm thinking of it, no treats for Crookshanks! He's gained some weight, and I want him to slim down."

"Sure, anything you say," I lie. She's going to starve the poor thing. He hates that food she has him on; only bit of joy he gets is when I slip him a little something. How can I deny him that?

She doesn't look like she believes me.

"Honestly, you two! Sometimes I think he's more your cat than mine. No treats! Anyway, I've left you some water Charmed to stay cold there beside you, and I'll pop back at lunch to heat up that soup your mum made, since you're still getting dizzy. Get some rest while I'm gone."

She blows a kiss, and she's gone.

With a groan, I roll onto my side, wondering if my will is up to date. My stomach is rolling, and the front of my head feels like it's going to burst off. I whimper as the bed shifts. Crookshanks slinks up beside me.

"Hey, boy. You come to keep me company while I slowly slip into eternal sleep?"

He gives a snort, and curls up at my stomach, and starts purring. Damn, that's nice; sort of like a furry hot water bottle. The purring is soothing too, easing the pain in my head.

"Thanks, mate. I've got you a nice big tuna tucked away in the fridge. I'll get that out once she leaves after her lunch break."

His purring increases, and I rest my hand on his back as we both drift off to sleep.


	29. May Blessings Fall Like Roses (M)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione have to perform some type of magical marriage tradition.**

There was, to paraphrase the bard, something rotten in the state of Devon.

Hermione had sensed it the moment she had stepped foot into the Burrow to join the family for dinner. Conversation had ceased as she had Flooed in, and everyone had stared at her guiltily before turning away. Ron had greeted her stiffly, his smile so fake and plastic that he looked like a supersized version of the dolls she had been given as a child. She had looked to Harry and Ginny for explanation, but had been met with the same rictus-like smile that the rest of the family was wearing. Both Bill and Fleur had darted upstairs to check on a napping Victoire, and Angelina had loudly volunteered to help Molly in the kitchen. When George sprang up to join them, Hermione had been staggered. She had stumbled out of the fireplace and into some sort of Stepford alternate universe. 

The mood had carried into dinner, as everyone kept up several stilted conversations at once, still refusing to meet her eye. Over her shoulder, or perhaps at her left earlobe, but no matter how fast she turned, they always avoided direct eye contact. Ron had let out a high, whinnying horse laugh when she had tried to ask what was wrong, and she noticed that Harry flinched. Arthur had shot her a furtive, sympathetic look, before turning back to Percy, who seemed even more passionate about cauldrons than usual. Since his denial, Ron had completely ignored her. Usually, his free hand would rest on her knee, or his foot would nudge hers under the table. At the very least, he would send an occasional smile her way. Worst of all, he was hardly eating. Food was being pushed around on his plate, and she would be surprised if one forkful out of five was making it into his mouth. Oh. Oh God. He was planning to break things off, and everyone knew it. That was the only thing it could be. But he had proposed just three months ago!

Hermione froze, running through all of the possible things she might have done to cause him to change his mind. Was it the cottage that they were getting ready to move into? She knew he had wanted to wait until they could own their own place outright, but she had convinced him that even though they didn’t plan on having children for several more years, it would be best to have the extra space just in case of any surprises. He had grumbled a bit over the extra work that they were going to have to put into the place to fix it up (what else could they expect, at such a rock-bottom price?), but she thought that he had warmed up to the idea once she had told him he could have a dog. 

Maybe he was upset that they were going to spend their holiday this summer with her parents? They were going to have their own room, but Ron might have had other plans before she had surprised him with the news. Or maybe it wasn't so much the plans themselves. Maybe she was being too pushy, and not taking his feelings into consideration again. But they had gotten so much better! It had taken awhile, but they were mostly able to say when something was bothering them, and actually work out a solution with a minimum of fighting. What on earth could it be? Maybe he had met someone at the pub. A stunning blonde named Frieda, and they were going to run away together and breed Nifflers.

Feeling sick, she pushed her food away, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She wished he would just get it over with, already. Even if he was trying to think of a way to spare her feelings, it would be easier if he had just told her before making her sit through dinner with his family. 

Upon seeing her reaction, Molly threw her fork down, and sent a steely look in the direction of her youngest son. “That’s it! Ron, you have to tell her. We’ve tried to give you time, but one of us is bound to slip up; besides, this is something that has to come from you.”

Ron seemed to deflate, slumping lower into his seat. “I was gettin’ around to it,” he mumbled.

“Mate, you’ve been ‘getting around to it’ for three months.” Harry put in, amused, but still looking concerned.

“Will someone, _anyone,_ just please tell me what’s going on?” Hermione asked plaintively. “All I could come up with was that he was about to throw me over.”

“What?” Ron yelped, scrambling back into an upright position. “Never!”

Molly pursed her lips. “I told you that you should have told her sooner. Now you’ve gone and upset the poor dear!”

“Come on, Mum. I think Ron has been pretty upset himself,” Bill defended his brother, from the other side of his wife.

“And who can blame heem? I would avoid eet myself, if I could,” Fleur muttered.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, questioningly.

“Alright, alright,” he groaned, steeling himself to finally address the subject.

“You know some of the barmy Muggle wedding traditions I’ve teased you about?”

“Yeeees,” she said slowly, unsure what that had to do with anything.

“Well, you’re about to have your revenge. Or you would, if this wasn't gonna make you miserable, too.”

“Now, I wouldn't say it was that bad,” Molly said unconvincingly.

“No, I think this would qualify as ‘that bad,’” Percy said in a thoughtful tone, as he speared a carrot.

“What Ron is trying to tell you, Hermione,” Arthur said, taking pity on his son, “Is that we have a bit of a tradition, as well.”

Hermione blinked. That was it? _That_ was the big, scary secret that had nearly sent her into a minor nervous breakdown? 

“Why didn't you just tell me? It isn't as if we aren't doing plenty of Muggle traditions for my family.”

Ron shot her a sulky glare from underneath his fringe. “This is a little bit more than just digging around for blue hand-me-downs, Hermione. I might think your traditions are barmy, but you might actually end up changing your mind when you hear mine.”

Oh dear. He was becoming maudlin. Perhaps she should hear this out before she said something she shouldn't.

“Now, it’s not that bad!” Molly said with false cheer. “Pass the peas this way, Arthur. Thank you. As I was saying, it’s actually a lovely tradition, and I wish so many people weren't giving it up nowadays. It was a common practice for centuries, and I think people would benefit from it.”

 

Curiosity piqued, Hermione leaned forward, ignoring the look that Ron exchanged with Harry. “That sounds fascinating! What exactly does it involve?”

Molly beamed at her enthusiasm, and Hermione failed to notice that the older woman still didn't quite meet her eyes.

“It’s quite simple, really. Once a couple is engaged, they go to the oldest living relative to receive their blessing, which is basically a spell that uses that person’s magic to bless and protect the marriage, and ensure that it’s prosperous.”

“But that sounds wonderful!” She turned and frowned at Ron. “Why are you so against it? It sounds easy, and I think it’s quite sweet!”

“The question you might want to be asking yourself right now, Hermione,” Ginny interrupted, “Is who the oldest member of our family is.”

Hermione shrugged. “There are so many, it’s hard to keep track. I still don't see the problem. Have I met them?”

“Here’s a hint,” George said, voice full of suppressed mirth, “You might want to gain some weight before you go see them. Specifically in the ankle area.”

Having known Ron since she was eleven, her mind was instantly filled with a variety of appropriately inappropriate vulgarities. Verbally, she restrained herself to a single, “Oh. I see.”

Harry pushed aside some bowls to lean over the table towards her, face earnest. “No, Hermione. You _don't_ see. I saw. Angelina has seen,” he nodded to his future sister-in-law, who shuddered at the memory, “and Fleur’s seen. But you haven't seen until you’ve _seen,_ and then you wish you hadn't.”

Alright, she knew that Harry and Ginny had become engaged about a month before she and Ron, but she didn't remember anything about this. From the look on Harry’s face as Ginny patted his hand, he wished he didn't remember either. 

“Is it really that bad?” She asked in a small voice, wondering if perhaps eloping might not be an option.

“Honey, how committed are you to marrying Ron?” Angelina drawled.

“Oi! That’s going a bit far, isn't it? I don’t want her off me completely!”

“What _do_ you want, Ron? Are you saying you want to wait until Muriel’s position as oldest becomes obsolete?” Ginny asked.

“I reckon she can't last more than another five or ten years, yeah,” Ron answered sheepishly, realizing that Muriel could very well outlast each person gathered around the table.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at him. “I am _not_ waiting ten years to get married! And she may be an annoying, hateful, malicious old woman, but I think I can endure a few comments about my ankles to get through this!”

As she sat back with a huff, Angelina shook her head. “Hermione, it’s more than just a few insults. The woman goes straight for your insecurities and gives them a squeeze.”

“She asked me if I minded being a replacement for Fred,” George added darkly.

Hermione winced. She knew that things had been rough for George and Angelina while they were first figuring out their relationship, and bringing up that time of darkness when they were finally happy would have been unbelievably cruel. She glanced at Ron, who had let out a growl at George’s admission while the rest of the family gasped. The initial shock had worn off a bit, and she could see now that a lot of his reluctance probably was rooted in the fear of what Muriel would bring up about him. Just the thought of it made a protective rage begin to simmer at the back of her mind. They were going to have their blasted blessing, but if that woman thought that she could use the opportunity to bully Ron, then she was sadly mistaken.

Very deliberately, she pulled her plate back and began to load her fork with a mouthful of roast. “Ron, send an owl to your aunt and tell her that we’ll be over on Thursday.”

Ron looked like he was about to argue, but something in her expression changed his mind. “Alright; I s’pose it’s better to get it over with.”

“And Ron?” George said, having gotten a look at Hermione as well, “I think you should make sure that Hermione doesn't take any jars along. I'm not sure she could stand the temptation.”

Hermione merely smiled serenely. 

 

 

For the next few days, work kept them handily distracted. But as Thursday rolled around, Hermione noticed Ron becoming jumpy and on edge. Currently, he was sitting on the sofa and polishing his broom. For the third time that day, but Hermione decided not to point that out, since it seemed to be relaxing for him.

Ron glanced out of the window, and said lightly, “Maybe we should Owl her and reschedule. It looks cool outside, and at her age, it wouldn't be good if she caught a chill.”

Hermione lowered the Prophet, not about to be taken in by his sudden display of solicitousness. “Ron, it was warm enough to wear shorts yesterday. I’m sure the weather is fine. Besides, we’re the ones going over there, so she wouldn't catch a chill if there was four feet of snow outside.”

He snapped the lid closed on his tin of polish with a pout. “Just because it’s warm one day doesn’t mean the temperature can’t drop the next. But if you want to be responsible for sending a poor old woman to her grave, then so be it.”

Abandoning her paper as a lost cause, Hermione struggled up from her curled position in her overstuffed chair, and crossed the room to drop onto the sofa beside Ron. “I know that this is an important tradition, but we could skip it, you know. If it’s making you this stressed out, there’s really no reason to go through with it.”

Ron’s eyes bugged out in a way that in any other situation would be comical. “Of course we have to do it! Do you know what the woman would do to us if we didn't? Sometimes, I think she _likes_ it when people try to get out of it!”

Absently, Hermione brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Are you saying that she would actually _curse_ us?”

He gently laid his broom and kit on the coffee table, before leaning back. “Well, not _curse_ curse. Not really. Just.....not a blessing. Something in the middle? Nothing painful, or anything like that. Just annoying. Besides, everyone else managed to do it, so I’m not gonna be the one to back out.”

“That still sounds horrid!” Hermione spat, “Almost like something straight out of Sleeping Beauty.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. “Is that one of those strange Muggle things that I should get, but don't?”

“It’s a fairytale,” Hermione explained, always happy to turn any occasion into a learning session, “A king and queen invite some fairies to their daughter’s christening, and while they’re giving the baby their blessings, a powerful fairy that wasn’t invited comes in, and curses the baby. The curse is broken in the end, obviously, but it sounds like something your aunt Muriel would do if she wasn’t invited.”

He gave her the look he usually reserved for when she forgot she could use magic. “What kind of bloody idiots invite _some_ fairies, but not all of them? Piss one of them off, and who knows what they’ll do!”

She rolled her eyes; storytime was going to be interesting, once they had children of their own. “Ron, they were Muggles. They could hardly be expected to understand the subtle social constructs of the fairy court, and the repercussions for violating them.”

“If they knew ‘em well enough to invite, then they knew enough to be able to figure that much out. ‘Sides, it’s just bad manners, isn’t it, to invite one but not the other?” He said loftily, pleased to be able to come out ahead of Hermione on the subject of etiquette. 

Her lips twitched; of course he would think of manners in a purely _hypothetical_ situation. “The point I was getting around to making, before you went off on a tangent, was that just like in the story, we’ll take whatever she throws at us, and we’ll come out fine in the end.”

Ron gazed at her suspiciously. “Sounds a lark, but something tells me you’ve glossed over a few details in the middle.”

True, but now that he was distracted enough to act normal, she wasn’t going to upset him again. “Nothing you need to worry about. Now, I think we should start getting ready to go. It’ll be best if we get there exactly five minutes early. That way, she can’t complain about us being late, or being too early and being an inconvenience.” 

He stood up, and began to tuck the tails of the button-up shirt he was wearing into his jeans. “You sound like Mum, but you’re probably right. The less we give her to nag us about, the better.”

Critically, she ran her eye over him. While his outfit was perfectly acceptable for most situations, she knew it would never do today. “Ron? What are you doing?”

Hand still jammed down his trousers, he paused. “Getting ready to go?”

She shook her head. “Not wearing that, you aren't.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He asked defensively. Even though he was able to afford clothes that actually fit him, he was still a little sensitive on the subject, as if the denim would shrink up two or three inches without him noticing.

Standing up, she patted his arm, and began to lead him to their room. “Nothing is wrong! At least, not for normal people. But we’re going to cut her off again by wearing dress robes.”

Although she had expected him to balk, she was pleasantly surprised when he gave her an impish grin. “You’re devious, you know that? I hate to do it on my day off, but it’ll be worth it to watch you go up against the old bat.”

Hermione smiled modestly; she hoped he remembered all of her efforts when it came time for him to meet her uncle Hubert. 

Once they had dressed carefully in their best robes, and had combed (tamed, in Hermione’s case) their hair, they set off for Muriel’s cottage. Agreeing that the Floo would be too messy, they decided to Apparate down the small lane that led to the house, out of sight of any Muggles that might have wandered close by. The cottage had been in the family for years, and was surprisingly in good repair for its age. It was, however, not very large, and Hermione’s mind boggled at the thought of anyone living in such close quarters with the unpleasant woman.

“I can’t believe your family lived with her for months,” she murmured quietly, as they made their way up the walk.

Ron fought the urge to loosen his tie, and was almost sure that they were being watched from behind the heavy curtains of one of the front windows. “I think it was hardest on Fred and George. She would’ve been the perfect target for a lot of their experiments, but they were trying not to give Mum a heart attack.”

They approached the door, and Hermione brushed off her robes as Ron knocked. “Remember, we say as little as possible, agree with whatever she says, and get out as fast as we can.”

“In all the years I’ve known you, I think that’s your best plan yet. Rather makes me wish our plans ever worked.”

“Come in!” Came the shrill, grating voice from inside, “I’m an old woman, you know, and I can’t be expected to be up and down with my poor joints, opening doors for people without the sense to use the Floo.”

“And so it starts,” Ron whispered, closing his eyes briefly.

With the greatest of reluctance, they went through the door, and Hermione let Ron lead her in the direction of the sitting room, since he knew the layout of the house. Inside, they found the elderly woman enthroned in a large, leather armchair. She wore flower print, polyester robes, a small strand of pearls, and lipstick that had been applied crookedly, giving her mouth a slightly lopsided appearance. Her thin, white hair was crimped in waves, each pin straight and rigid as if it had been set there years ago. Her beady, black eyes were judging, taking them in from head to toe as they crossed the room.

“Well. You at least had the decency to dress properly, I’ll give you that,” she sniffed. “I suppose that’s your doing, girl. This one wouldn’t think of it himself, though Merlin knows his mother tried to raise him right. Still, what can you expect? Not much to work with, in any sense. The oldest boy got everything when it came to looks.”

Hermione caught the flash of insecurity in Ron’s eyes, and she bridled; Ron’s confidence had improved tremendously since the war, and aside from the occasional feelings of doubt that most people experienced, he was in a good place with himself. Watching his years of effort taking a hit like that was something that she couldn't tolerate. 

“While it’s true that Bill is handsome,” Hermione spoke in a false, cheerful voice, “I’ve actually found that Ron resembles him the most. And I’m not the only girl that’s ever considered him attractive.”

Ron blushed, and Hermione was pleased that she had handled the situation so well, both making Ron feel better, and contradicting Muriel without offending her enough that she might withhold the blessing.

Muriel pursed her nearly nonexistent lips, her eyes fixed on Ron disapprovingly before snapping to Hermione.

“Already a ladies man, is he? Not a good sign. Do you think you have what it takes to keep him from tom catting around?”

Hermione gasped, not sure if she was more outraged at the implication that Ron would cheat on her, or that she was somehow insufficient in that area.

“I would never do that! I mean, that’s just plain wrong! I love Hermione, and she doesn’t have to do a damn thing to keep me from doing something I shouldn't be in the first place!” Ron snapped indignantly, his ears flushing a deep plum color.

Muriel sneered. “That’s what they all say, in the beginning. But men are all alike; always wanting something fresh and new, and needing to prove their manhood.”

“Real men don’t have to prove it, and they sure as hell don’t do it by hurting the person they’ve made a commitment to.” Ron growled, his eyes flashing.

Hermione couldn't have wanted to cheer more if he had been back on the Quidditch pitch; the strength of his conviction came through in his voice as well as his words. One of Ron’s most defining characteristics was loyalty, and it had only gotten stronger as he had matured. Ron might get snappish and sulky after a hard day, and he might forget to do something that she had asked, but this was one area she knew she would never have to worry about.

Even Muriel looked slightly impressed. That is to say, her mouth gave the appearance of having sucked four lemons, rather than five. “Noble words, and commendable if you actually stick to them. But it’s a woman’s job to keep her man in line, and young women nowadays are always gadding about instead of staying home and attending to a man’s basic needs.”

Again, Hermione reared back to say something, but Ron beat her to it. “It’s a person’s own job to keep themselves in line, and doesn’t have anything to do with being a man or a woman. And I guess I don’t know the same kind of witches you do, because all the ones I know are more than capable of doing both. Not that it’s any of your business, but Hermione tends to me just fine, thanks.”

“No need to get shirty with me, boy; I’m only speaking from experience.” She turned her attention to Hermione. “Well, your ankles might be scrawny, but at least you have good child-bearing hips. I suppose that counts for something. Though what does an old woman like me know? The two of you have probably been living in sin, so you must know _something_ that inspired him to make an honest woman out of you. Looks certainly can be deceiving. Just remember, marital knowledge isn’t something you can learn from _books.”_

Hermione ruffled up like an angry chicken, and Ron sidled a few steps away. How dare she? This--this withered, sour old _prune_! Setting aside the dated notion about pleasing men, this was coming from a woman whose own husband had, in all likelihood, died in self defense! And not only that, but she had simultaneously been able to call her a slut as well as a prude!

“Aunt Muriel, were we going to do this today, or did we come at a bad time?” Ron asked, repressing the fourteen year old boy inside that wanted to watch Hermione lay into the old bat. He loved Hermione, and knew murdering a little old lady would be bad for her, career-wise.

A clawed hand reached out to grasp the head of the cane that was propped against the chair. “Alright, alright! I suppose it was too much to think that young people would want to benefit from the advice of their elders.”

Both of them winced as her joints popped like bubble wrap when she raised herself to her feet, neither sure whether or not to reach out to support her as she shuffled forward. With her free hand, she pulled out her wand, unsurprisingly twisted in appearance. She gave each of them a sharp prod with the tip.

“Well, since you’re in such a hurry, get yourselves to the center of the room,” she fussed.

They hurried to obey, nearly tripping over the large ottoman in their haste to position themselves at the center of the faded rug printed with fat, cabbage roses.

“Now, face each other, and join hands. Both of them, that’s right. Focus on each other while I perform the spell.” Muriel instructed briskly, standing a short distance away. 

Hands linked, they smiled at each other nervously, not exactly sure what to expect. They had heard that there would be a bright light, but some said it hovered between them, and others said it wrapped around them. Frankly, the thought of anything to do with Muriel wrapping around them had both of them rather green, but they had also been told that the worst part would be dealing with the woman’s poisonous tongue. Then again, how could it get worse than that?

Under her breath, just out of range of hearing, Muriel began to chant, the tip of her wand glowing with light. Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye as the light began to flow into a surprisingly pretty ribbon of rose gold, floating across the room to hover beside them. With a sudden, snake-like movement, it darted towards them, and Hermione felt Ron start to step between it and her as if to shield her. Sensing that he shouldn’t, she squeezed his hands, and he remained still. Faster and faster, the light wove around them, pressing them tighter together, and the breath caught in Hermione’s throat as she saw it twisting to form some sort of.....vine? They were mostly smooth, but every so often, there were small thorns. Not large enough to cause serious pain, but would definitely smart temporarily. What kind of omen was that? Was that Muriel’s influence, or did it say something about the marriage itself?

Ron was looking at her in confusion, and his lips parted just as a sweet, summery scent filled the room. In an explosive burst, large, pinkish gold roses bloomed in a profusion of petals, outnumbering the thorns. There were large roses and small buds, some open widely, and some tightly shut; No two were the same, but each held their own special allure. The nervousness had faded from their smiles to be replaced with delight, neither knowing what the vision surrounding them signified, but both feeling it was somehow right. A gasp reminded them that they weren't alone, and the sound drew their eyes to Muriel. She stood there, wand still raised, stunned into immobility. 

Gaze still focused on the display of roses, Muriel finally declared, “This union has been.....blessed.”

As the magic began to shimmer and vanish, Ron asked his beleaguered looking aunt, “Does that mean we’re finished? We can leave now, right?” He didn’t see any sense in being overly polite now that they had gotten what they came for.

His rudeness brought her back to herself somewhat, and she scowled at him. “I had been planning to ask you to stay for tea, but by all means, rush off without a thought for an old woman, living out here alone.”

Although calculated to elicit sympathy, it was a known fact that Muriel had most of her family well under her thumb, and they danced regular attendance. If she was alone today, it was because she had chosen to be. 

“Thank you for everything, but we need to go. My parents asked us to come for dinner,” Hermione said smoothly, conveniently leaving out the fact that she had declined and rescheduled.

“Well, be off, then. At least _some_ know when they have a duty towards family,” Muriel replied, cutting her eyes at Ron.

It had little effect; in fact, the prospect of leaving pleased him so much that he was able to give her a sunny smile, which disconcerted her into returning her attention to Hermione. “It seems you have a decent future in front of you,” she admitted grudgingly, “Maybe you _do_ have something of value, after all.”

Determined not to be fazed, and still glowing from the rush of magic which had surrounded her, Hermione smiled broadly, taking Ron’s hand. “Yes, I do. I have Ron.”

And before the woman could offer a rejoinder, Hermione neatly Apparated them away, disregarding that it was technically an impolite way to leave. They arrived in their own living room, thankfully in one piece, and Ron sagged with a relieved sigh.

 

“I feel like my soul has just been cleansed. How has she managed to live that long without getting herself murdered?” He asked, his hands already loosening his tie.

 

“Ron!” Hermione said, only mildly scandalized, as she kicked off her pumps.

 

He started walking to their room, and she followed. “You know I don’t mean that I think they _should._ I’m just surprised that they _haven't.”_

“I have to admit, after today, I can see your point,” she admitted, her mind already wandering to something more important. “Ron? What do you think it meant? The roses. I know there was supposed to be light, but no one mentioned anything like that. Do you think it was telling us something, or--”

“Hermione!” Ron stopped her, upon hearing her words start to speed up the way they did when she overthought things. He took her gently by the arms, so he could look in her eyes. “I kinda remember somethin’ about putting too much stock in prophecies, and the shit that can cause. Maybe it does mean something. But does it really matter? Roses don’t sound too threatening to me, so I don’t think we should worry. Let’s just focus on making things as good as they can be, and see what that gets us, yeah?”

“I.....you’re right. You’re right.” Hermione nodded, mentally shredding the six feet of parchment she had already thought up on the subject, with its possible meanings. “It’s enough to do our best, without looking for some hidden meaning in everything, when there might not even be any.” Although she would bet her copy of Hogwarts, A History, that there was.

Ron gave her a quick kiss, before turning to his side of the room. “Good. I’d hate if you drove yourself spare over it, and me along with you. Now, I think I’m gonna change out of these robes; they’ve absorbed the scent of old woman and mothballs.”

Hermione gave her own robes a sniff, and had to concur. Ugh, she would need to do some cleaning up, since the last person she wanted to smell like was Muriel. Even if the actual ceremony had been touching, the woman’s poisonous tongue had made it hard to enjoy. As she replayed the afternoon in her head, she began to seethe. Where did Muriel get off insinuating that she didn’t have what it takes to keep Ron interested? He had certainly never complained! What could Muriel possibly know in that department? Wasn’t she of the ‘lay back and do your duty’ generation? And why had she thought that the subject was any of her business?

 

The more she fumed, the more frustrated she got, yanking off her robes, and reaching for some of her comfortable clothes to put on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Ron had already stripped down to his boxers, and was bent over rooting in his chest of drawers. Couldn't keep his attention, was it? Well, she would soon prove _that_ assumption wrong! In two quick strides she was standing next to him, and as he stood up, she took his face in her hands and proceeded to give him a proper snog. He gave a muffled sound of surprise, and she gave herself a pat on the back as she heard the trousers slip from his hand. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, biting down with exactly the amount of pressure that she knew would make him groan. On cue, a throaty sound rose from his throat, and his hands gripped her hips, the motion having the result of the rest of her undone robes falling off.

He pulled his head back, his eyes dark under his half closed lids. “What was that for? It’s not my birthday, or any national holiday that I can remember.”

Hermione flushed with embarrassment, feeling to ridiculous to tell him the reason she was so motivated. “Well, I just thought we could.....but if you don’t _want_ to.....”

With a glance between them, he drew her attention to the bulge that had risen in his boxers. “I think we can safely assume I’m past the point of wanting. You just....kinda caught me with my pants down, so to speak.”

“Are you saying you didn’t like it?” She asked, her eyebrows coming together. “You said before that you like it when I make the first move. And you’ve always reacted favorably when I kiss you like that, so I thought-”

“Hermione,” Ron said slowly, his lips twitching in amusement as he realized what had set her off, “You aren’t letting what Muriel said get to you, are you? Because you know it’s a load of shite, and--”

“Of course not!” She huffed. “What does she know about anything? I might not be like the witches in that overused magazine you had when you were younger, but, well, I certainly know what to do with what I have! I’d just like to show her that--”

Ron let out a burst of laughter, leaning away from her to slump against the drawers. “You do realize that this isn’t a practical exam, and she isn't gonna pop out and give you a perfect O?”

“I was rather hoping _you_ would give me a _perfect O,”_ She responded haughtily, “But if you want to stop.....”

She let out a short shriek as he scooped her up, and began to walk to the bed. “Want to stop? Not bloody likely. I’m more than happy to give you two or three Os.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, tossing her on the bed and diving in after her.

With a shake of her head, she rolled him over on his back, straddling one thigh. “All in good time. But first.....”

Leaning over him, she reinstated their earlier kiss, her hands stroking over the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and spreading over his chest. As he began to respond eagerly, her fingers toyed with one of his nipples, pinching and rolling it into a peak. He whined into her mouth, his back arching; he was sensitive there, as she had found out years ago, and he had gotten over the embarrassment of the noise he made when she played with him. As she worked him up, she pushed herself against his thigh to stimulate herself, the damp material of her underwear dragging across his skin. Finally, she left off kissing him to trail her mouth down to join her hands, which soon had him thrusting his hips in the air. Taking advantage of his movements, she twisted herself to remove his boxers, pushing them to his knees.

Just as she was about to move into her next phase on her assault against his senses, he slid his arm around her waist, and flipped her onto her back, smiling smugly. 

“What are you doing? I wasn't finished yet!”

He backed up until he was resting between her legs. “Technically, neither was I. Now, leaving aside for the moment that Muriel is batshit mental, and that there’s no need to prove that you can hold my interest, we’re gonna change how we go about this. Didn’t we have a big talk about marriage being built on equal effort, an’ all that? Well, let me get down to my effort!”

She was distracted as his fingers parted her, and began to stroke through the slickness that had already built up. “Yes, but you don’t have to-- _ah!_ I was going to--”

“Hermione,” he said, pausing briefly, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, “You know I’m happiest when I’m eating. If you’re dead set on satisfying me, _then let me eat.”_

Her reply was lost in a strangled gasp as he buried his face between her legs, his tongue dancing and flicking across her in a silent testament to the fact that he knew all of her weak points, too. Using one hand to hold a thigh so she wouldn't crush his head, he let his eyes move up her body, from her stomach, which sucked in every time she tensed, to linger at her breasts, which bobbed with her movements. Finally, he watched as her head thrashed from side to side, her hair falling in a tangle across her pleasure flushed face. As much as he loved what she did to him, he had always found it as much of a turn on to see what he did to her. 

Once he felt her getting close, and rubbing himself into the mattress had become more painful than a means of relief, he crawled up her body, sliding his jaw from side to side to work out the numbness. Her hands roamed his arms spasmodically, clutching at him as he entered her, both of them groaning at the sensation of her heat wrapping snuggly around him. He didn’t bother to go slow; both of them were already near the edge, and anything other than fast, hard thrusts would be more frustrating than pleasurable. Her ankles might be skinny, but they locked around him perfectly as his hips hammered into hers, wringing cries from both their lips. As she spasmed around him upon reaching her peak, his head dropped to the crook of her neck, so he could nip at the salty expanse of skin. Her nails clawed his shoulders, and he came undone; the world flashed white, and then black, everything fading away except for the sensations coursing through his body. When he came to himself, he found that he had managed to roll to his side, and he reached out an arm to bonelessly pull her closer. Spent for the time being, they cuddled into each other, dozing contentedly before the next round.

_Neither one could keep their eyes open, and so failed to notice the brief glow of gold around the bed. They failed as well to notice the air filling with the subtle scent of roses......._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	30. Unmarketable Goods (T)

**Prompt: Ron and Hermione react to seeing or hearing the phrase, "I'd go sleazy for Ron Weasley."**

While usually an early riser on a school day, Hermione allowed herself to sleep in an extra hour (for her) on the weekends, when her duties as Head Girl didn't demand otherwise. Today, however, she was up at the crack of dawn, rushing around and making sure things would run smoothly in her absence. Today was Saturday, and she was finally going to be able to see Ron, after nearly a month of missing each other because of conflicting schedules. Letters were all well and good, but they couldn't compare to actually being with him. The distance had been hard for both of them to bear, now that their relationship was headed in the direction they wanted it to, so each weekend they had together was precious.

Sweeping down the stairs to the Great Hall, Hermione absently admonished a pair of first years for tossing a Quaffle around in the castle, but she didn't bother about being stern. After all, there was only one more week until they were out for the summer, and Hermione remembered how Harry and Ron always got around that time. Even though she had nearly finished her last year, she still felt a small pang when she remembered that they weren’t there. With a nod to a few of the other students in her year, she found a seat at one of the tables, and began to butter her toast as she waited for her Daily Prophet to be delivered. She had almost read it through completely when someone sat down across from her with a heavy thump, accompanied by a loud groan. Looking up at the shock of red hair resting on the table, Hermione gave a small smile. 

“Rough night, was it? I told you it would be better to go upstairs when I did.”

A bleary eye, almost as red as the hair that surrounded it, rolled up at her. “Stuff it, Hermione. The way you can be so cheerful in the morning is appalling.” Ginny said, her voice sounding scratchy.

“You could be cheerful too, if you hadn't stayed up until sunrise carousing with the rest of the team,” Hermione said, knowing it wasn't true. No amount of sleep would ever make Ginny Weasley a morning person. 

Ginny snorted. “Sleep has nothing to do with it; you have that self-satisfied smile on your face because you’re off to see my brother today. Honestly, I know Ron can be great, but I think being his sister has blinded me to what the romantic appeal is.”

“Oh, Ron has his advantages,” Hermione said with a blush, purely out of happiness from finally being with Ron, after several years of thinking it would never happen.

The other girl shot up, a look of horror on her face, which was rapidly turning green. “I didn't need to know that! At all! Why did you put that in my head, and could you please Obliviate it away?” She said shrilly, drawing a few stares.

“I didn't mean it like that!” Hermione hissed, but couldn't resist adding for all of the times Ginny had teased her, “Of course, he _does_ have those advantages, too.....”

“Alright, that’s it,” Ginny said as she stood up, wincing from moving too fast. “I’m officially too sick to eat. You have a good day, and I’m going to go see if Luna is back from her morning walk.”

Hermione gave her a small wave, before checking her watch. It was a little early, but she didn't think Ron would mind if she came now. George was in the middle of one of his good stretches, and Ron had said that his sense of humor was returning back to normal, even though it was still apparent that the loss of Fred was still on his mind. He was starting to take more of an interest in the shop, which was the reason that Ron finally had some free time. She was so proud of the way Ron had stepped up to help George, not only with the running of the shop, but as someone George could talk to. It hadn't been easy for Ron, but she could tell he was happy that his efforts were bearing fruit. It would be good to see George doing better; Christmas had naturally been hard, and while he had made an effort, he had had a small breakdown. 

Deciding that things were well enough in order, she vanished her paper, and made her way to the exit, following the long path that led away from the grounds. Once she could see Hogsmeade in the distance, Hermione Apparated to Diagon Alley, close to the shop. The streets were crowded, and it seemed like everyone was out today, probably enjoying the sun after several days of rain. Hermione straightened the hem of her dark purple shirt, having forgone her robes in favor of Muggle clothing, for a more fitted look. Hoping her hair had stayed relatively in place, Hermione began to walk down the street, becoming more puzzled at the giggles she was hearing. Paying closer attention, she was able to make out what sounded like the words ‘slut’ and ‘Ron Weasley.’

What on earth? She was aware that she, along with both Ron and Harry, had become a popular subject since the end of the war. And the relationships between the three of them had been under close scrutiny. However, even the Prophet hadn't sunk so low as to make insinuations of that sort! Not that she was ashamed of her physical relationship with Ron. At all. It just happened not to be anyone else’s business, and the thought of people assuming they had the right to judge her and speculate about her love life infuriated her to no end. Face screwed up in an angry scowl, she strode up to the door of George’s shop, people quickly ducking out of the way when they saw her coming. 

Inside, she found that it was quite crowded, and had trouble making her way through. Bright red hair shone like a beacon, and Hermione used it to set her course, adjusting it whenever her target bobbed to another location. Bypassing a group of ten-year-old boys who were gleefully reading product descriptions out loud, she finally caught up to Ron. He was just turning away from putting some boxes on an upper shelf when he saw her, and his face broke out in a delighted smile, only to quickly change to a look of panic. In a few strides, he was standing next to her, and pulled her into an empty isle.

“Don’t kill me! It wasn't my fault; I didn't do it!” He said in a low, fierce whisper. “I'm your boyfriend, and you love me, right?”

Hermione blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of his rapidfire words. “I--why would I kill you? Yes, you are, and yes, I do; what have you done, anyway?”

“Nothing!” Absolutely nothing! That’s what I'm trying to tell you! Please, Hermione, have a little mercy; you'll never get a good job at the Ministry if you're brought up on murder charges, even if you _are_ famous.”

If she didn't know better, she would think he’d been into the Firewhiskey. “Ron, what _are_ you talking about? Why would I want to kill you?”

Ron, who had looked like he had been searching for more reasons why their relationship shouldn't be terminated in a decidedly permanent manner, paused. He peered closely at her face, and then gave a nervous, high pitched laugh. 

“So you’re not mad at me? For anything?”

“No! Why would you even think that?”

“I don't know. But you were coming at me with that _look_ on your face....”

She put her hands on her hips. “What look is that?”

“Hermione, love, when you’re hacked, you have a look in your eyes that makes a blokes’ bollocks crawl right back up into his body.” Ron said seriously.

“Well,” she snorted, “Unless you have something you need to tell me, you can let them crawl right back out again.”

“Nope, nothing!” Ron said, far too brightly. “I haven't done anything. I _wouldn't_ do anything. And if I did, I would tell you, because our relationship is founded on a bedrock of honesty.”

Alright, now she _knew_ something was up; Ron only ever sounded like Percy when he was trying to hide something. However, the tension that had been forming in her shoulders relaxed. Ron had done something, but this was along the lines of messing about with Harry, where the two of them got up to something idiotic but ultimately forgivable. When it was something really bad, Ron was always more quiet.

“Mhmm. It is, isn't it? Well, if you’re ready to go, I’ll just pop in to say hello to George first, alright?”

She turned to go, but was pulled back around so fast by Ron that she was almost dizzy.

“Um, I think we should just go. He’s in the back, and, er, doesn't need to be disturbed.”

Hermione looked around at the bustling shop, wondering how George could possibly be able to shut himself away while Ron was gone. “He’s not.....having one of his bad days, is he?” She asked, phrasing it delicately.

Ron glared in the direction of the workroom, his ears tinted maroon. “No. Not yet. Not if he knows what’s good for him.” He said darkly, looking more like himself. “Let me just get Verity’s attention.....” he said, waving his hand in the air. From the cash register, the short blonde woman looked up, and nodded her head when Ron gestured towards the door. “Alright, we can go now. Did you still want to look for a graduation present for Ginny?”

And just like that, the oddness of before was gone. At least, it appeared to be. But as they wandered from shop to shop, Hermione noticed that Ron would suddenly start speaking very loudly, and it often seemed as if he was deliberately popping up in front of her to block her view. Twice, they had walked into a store, then he had abruptly grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back out, claiming that they wouldn't find anything they wanted there. He kept shooting nervous looks at anyone who passed, and Hermione wasn't sure whether to be concerned or annoyed. She finally settled on a mixture of the two, when he had suggested they buy some sandwiches and eat them standing up in an alley, instead of eating somewhere or taking something back to the shop.

“Ron! I tried to pretend that I bought your story earlier, but I’m tired of your bizarre behavior. I want an explanation, now!” She demanded, tapping her fingers of one hand on her folded arms. 

Ron gave her a sickly smile. “I don’t know what you mean, love. I've been perfectly--”

At that moment, a gaggle of girls about Hermione’s age darted up, shrieking and giggling, pushing one forward. Blushing, but grinning all the same, she loudly proclaimed, “I’d go sleazy for Ron Weasley!” Before dashing off with her friends.

Like a freshly caught tuna, Hermione was left with her mouth flapping open, aghast by what she had just witnessed. For not only had the words been a shock to her system, but so were the matching buttons that they had all worn with the same slogan emblazoned across them.

“Oh hell. Merlin, take me now!”

Hermione whipped around to face him, as he stood there with his head thrown back dramatically.

“I want to know what just happened,” she said in a low voice, “and I want to know _right now.”_

Looking surprised to find himself still among the living, Ron began to do some fancy verbal footwork. “It wasn't me! I didn't even know about this until yesterday. The first I heard about it was when I went out to pick up lunch, after spending all morning cleaning up the mess from one of George's latest experiments. Which isn't fair, that I’m always the one to--”

“Ron.”

“Right, yeah, not the time.” He agreed, running a finger around the inside of his collar. “So I’m out getting the sandwiches, right? Well, these damned buttons start showing up everywhere! Everywhere I look, someone is wearing one, or saying--well, you heard. And it got worse when they recognized me; you wouldn't believe what some of them did!”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” Hermione growled, impatient to hear the rest.

Ron nodded vigorously; where he had been reticent before, he was now a veritable fountain of information. “Yeah! A few of them tried to tear off pieces of my robes for some sort of keepsake,” 

That would explain why he was just wearing corduroys and a jumper today, Hermione thought.

“And another one,” he lowered his voice, looking around to make sure no one heard, “threw a pair of her knickers at me!” Her _knickers!”_ His voice rose until it cracked on that last word, his disbelief evident in every syllable.

“That must have been quite an interesting experience,” she bit out.

Seeing danger signs, Ron waved his hands in protest. “No! It wasn't! The only knickers I’m interested in are yours! Well, preferably with you in them. Or possibly with them on the floor nearby. But definitely, definitely _yours---_ you know what I mean. Anyway, It turns out that George got the brilliant idea to make these up, but I’ve told him he has to stop. Wait, where are you going? Hermione?” He called to her retreating back.

_“George.”_

How could she have been so stupid? She had heard Ron’s name, the beginning of another word, and putting it together with the sly laughter, had immediately assumed it was about herself. She was going to murder George for this! It was already hard enough dealing with all of the publicity they had received from the war; all three of them had had their share of admirers, some who had gotten far too enthusiastic. It wasn't that she didn't trust Ron, because she did. He had had plenty of opportunities to be with someone else, but his only reaction to all the attention had been a sharp sense of discomfort. It wasn't something he should have to deal with, and she was none too fond of watching women blatantly throw themselves at him, right in front of her!

 

“Hermione!” Ron yelled, darting in her path, “Look, George would like Fred to be able to come back; he doesn't want to join him. I promise that I’m taking care of it, so could you give me a chance?”

They moved to the side so that other shoppers could get by them, Hermione nibbling her lip in frustration. George hadn't done anything like this in a very long time. A little over a year, as a matter of fact. For months, he had been unnaturally quiet, and his sense of humor nonexistent. He had come back to them little by little, and, in a strange way, this sign of his old self emerging was almost a relief. Ron had been dealing with him so well; perhaps it was best if she just let him take care of things.

As the milk of human kindness and compassion was flowing through her, and she was congratulating herself on her mature reaction, another group of girls swarmed them. This time, there was no need for anyone to push this girl forward; this one pranced right up to Ron, with a large, dimpled grin on her face, grabbed the front of her robes and--

“Bloody _hell!”_ Ron yelped.

“Well?” The girl asked proudly, “How about it?”

Ron’s eyes, which were as large as the platters his mum used to serve turkey, were forcefully wrenched upwards. “What? Oh. No!” He grabbed Hermione’s hand, and held it up for the girl to see. “I’m already, you know, really happy, so thanks all the same--”

The girl pouted a moment, then shrugged philosophically. “Couldn't hurt to try.” She then tugged her robes closed, and moved along down the street with her friends. 

 

Ron turned to Hermione, who was an alarming shade of red. “Did she really get that tattooed on--”

“Yes, she apparently did,” Hermione answered in a strangled voice. “I gather you found that impressive.”

“Well, I thought the lion was a nice touch.”

“You would!”

“Oh, come on, Hermione! It’s mouth was wrapped right around her n--”

_“George is a dead man.”_

Ron dashed after his girlfriend, who was practically sprinting towards the shop. She might not actually kill George, but she looked ready to do serious damage. Not that he blamed her. If George had done something to make it where random blokes came up to Hermione to flash their bits and bobs, he’d be right hacked as well. But he had _just_ cleaned up the back room, and he didn't want to explain to his mum why one of her sons was near-fatally mangled.

He might have longer legs, but Hermione was better at darting through spaces in the crowd; he didn't catch up to her until she was throwing open the door that led to George’s workroom. George, who had been bent over the table set up in the middle of the room, took one look at Hermione’s face and blanched.

“Oh, shite.”

“How right you are!” Hermione seethed, glaring at him as he tried to scuttle partway behind a file cabinet.

“Ron, why the hell did you tell her?” George called, not failing to notice that his brother showed no sign of coming to his rescue. 

Ron stood behind Hermione, pondering on whether or not it would be best to go for her wand. Probably not. He was on this end of it, after all, and he’d like to keep it that way. 

“I didn't tell her, you great tit! But it’s bloody hard to miss those damn pins, when every witch that passes by has to flash them at me!”

“And that isn't all they’re flashing,” Hermione added, amazed at the lengths to which some people would go.

George perked up at this. “Really? I suppose some of them feel the need to live up to the slogan, as it were. Not entirely bad, if Ron was single--”

“Which I’m not,” Ron cut in firmly, having no desire to head down _that_ dangerous road. “I’m not single. I have no desire to be single. I am happily, _thoroughly_ taken.”

Calming a bit at his words, Hermione let the tip of her wand drop. “What on earth even possessed you to do such a thing?”

George, sensing that the imminent danger had, for the moment, passed, eased out into the room. “Well, we were having a few drinks down at the Leaky--me, Ron, and Lee-- and we got to talking about old Quidditch games. That little ditty that Malfoy wrote came up, and how we eventually turned it around for our side, see? And it made me think of the buttons he had made up for Harry, too. Well, one thing led to another, and I figured that Ron’s name might pull in a few sales, so--”

“Just Ron?” Hermione asked quickly. “Not Harry, or me?”

George shrugged semi-apologetically. “Sorry. We’ve always sort of tested on family first. But if you and Harry would like to get in on this--”

“No!” Ron and Hermione both shouted. 

George had begun to fiddle with the things scattered about on the table, and Hermione’s attention was drawn to a medium sized pile of material. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she stalked over, lifting up one item to examine it. On a small scrap of fabric, the words ‘I’d go Sleazy for Ron Weasley’ was printed in cursive script. 

“And the reasoning behind this?” She asked in a deceptively calm voice.

George shrank back, aware that the hand holding her wand was twitching. “Oh, those? Nothing, really. Just an idea for marketing......”

Hermione nodded, continuing in a reasonable tone, “Yes, I see. there’s only one slight problem with that.”

“What would that be?” George asked meekly.

_“My boyfriend isn't on the market!”_ She hissed, thrusting her face forward, causing him to trip over himself to move away.

With brisk movements, Hermione plucked a particular pair of red knickers out of the pile, held them up, and nodded in satisfaction. Two seconds later, her wand was pointed at the remaining unmentionables. 

“Incindio!”

She glared at George, giving a loud sniff before turning to Ron. “I’m going up to your room. Join me in ten minutes.”

With the same bushy, irritated dignity of Crookshanks after having his tail caught in the door, she marched up the stairs.

Baffled, yet thankful it hadn't been worse, George turned to Ron.

“What was all that about?”

“I think,” Ron answered, already trotting after her with keen anticipation, “that that was Hermione’s way of saying that not only am I off the market, but you shouldn’t expect to see me back on the shelves any time soon!”

 

 

 

 


	31. Measured in Summers (K+)

_Summer, 1992_

As was the case with most school age children, summer was Ron Weasley’s favorite season. Blissfully setting aside his homework until the last possible minute, just like anyone else would do (except Hermione. He knew, instinctively, that Hermione had probably finished it her first night home), he set out to enjoy his summer to the fullest extent. This meant swimming in the pond, whining his way into Quidditch games, and climbing trees with Ginny. It was catching frogs and lightning bugs, and eating homemade ice cream while watching the sunset. Sometimes it meant finding out of the way places on their property to sit and think of nothing in particular, and other times it meant reading comics and organizing his Chocolate Frog card collection.

He was bored within three days.

As much as he hated the tedious aspect of lessons, he found that he missed his time at Hogwarts. Actually, he missed his friends (mainly Harry), so he set about writing a letter, because he figured Harry was probably going spare living with those Muggles. He waited for a reply, but none came. He sent a letter, and then another, but still nothing. Finally, he wrote to Hermione; if anyone could figure out what was wrong, it was her. He found that Harry hadn't been answering her, either, and now both of them were worried. 

Things that Harry had let drop about his homelife during the year whispered through Ron’s head, leaving nasty suspicions and a sick feeling. Finally, one night after tossing and turning, he kicked off the hot, sticky sheets that were clinging to his skin, and made a decision. Swinging his legs of the edge of the bed, he stood up, and began to creep down to the twins room, knowing that he needed their help, and that this was the sort of thing they lived for. He paused briefly, suddenly thinking about Hermione, and whether he should ask her to help, or not. after several moments of hesitation, he decided not to. She would only come up with a hundred and seventy-six reasons why they shouldn't do it (whatever ‘it’ turned out to be), and Harry didn't have time for that. Hermione was brilliant, he thought, his hand on the knob, and he liked her well enough. 

But he could get on just fine without her.

_Summer, 1993_

Ron peeled the last shred of sunburnt skin from the back of his neck, rolling it into a ball and flicking it away. It was one of the curses of being a ginger; the sun was _not_ your friend. The only upside was that the rest of his family was suffering right along with him, so the teasing was almost nonexistent. At least, on that score. Percy was getting the brunt of the twins’ attention, and Ron privately thought that there were few others as deserving. He had always thought of Perce as a bit of a pinhead, but ever since getting that Head Boy badge, it had swollen to dangerous proportions. And, he thought with a grin, who better to pop it than a couple of pricks? He didn't know what it was about smart people that always made them think they were so much better than everyone else. Well, Hermione wasn't _that_ bad. She might blather on about the rules, and nearly nag him into a coma, but he had seen her smash right through the rules, and do things that he couldn't even imagine Percy even considering. And she could be fun when she wanted to, and, although he’d never admit it, she had written things that had helped him deal with what had happened to Ginny in the Chamber. 

When he had told her about the vacation his family was taking, she had been nearly as excited as he was, and had made him promise to remember everything he could, because she wanted to hear about it when he got back. The attention was.....flattering, really; no one else had ever been that enthusiastic about hearing what he had to say. Which was why, when asked if he wanted to invite anyone else to Diagon Alley when they found out Harry wasn't home, he had taken the twins’ joking suggestion about Hermione seriously. The prospect of spending time with just her was oddly appealing, and when her reply came back saying that she would meet him, he didn't give too much thought to how happy that made him. He reckoned that, along with Harry, she was his best friend.

He enjoyed having her around a lot.

_Summer, 1994_

The sunlight stung his eyes as he squinted across the field, barely able to make out the heads of Fred and George in the distance. He watched suspiciously for a while, but he was too far away to be able to tell what they were doing, and he wasn't stupid enough to risk moving any closer. They had been even more sneaky and secretive of late, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Mum caught them out and the whole mess exploded. He just hoped he wouldn't be standing close enough for any of the gore to land on him.

He pulled nervously on the collar of one of his nicer t-shirts, and checked once more to make sure that his trousers were actually covering his ankles. This was going to be one of the best summers _ever,_ he thought with a grin. He could count the number of professional Quidditch games he had been to on one hand, and he had never thought he’d be lucky enough to go to a match this important. And not only that, but Harry and Hermione were getting to come, and he could finally feel like he was making up for a few of the butterbeers and sweets they had treated him to. Not that he didn't try to do his share, and not that he let them get away with it often; but it felt nice, for once, to be the one providing something special, even if they were technically his dad’s passes. And he was going to get to see _Viktor Krum_ himself in action! Krum was amazing, and one of his heroes, even if it made him feel a bit disloyal to the Cannons. Still, this was a once in a lifetime chance, and he had been saving his money so he could make the most of it.

Harry wouldn't be coming until tomorrow, but his dad was taking him to pick up Hermione today. For some reason, thinking of her made the memory of her hugging him flash through his mind, and he felt uncommonly hot. The sun must be brighter than he thought. He looked around nervously, as if someone might be able to read his thoughts. He didn't know why he was embarrassed at the thought of her; it was just an odd feeling he’d been getting around her lately, or whenever he thought of her too much. To distract himself, he imagined how lost she’d be trying to figure out some of the more complex moves that they were sure to see, and he couldn't help snickering. She always got so flustered when there was something she didn't understand, like it was a personal insult. She got all pouty, and her face scrunched up in a way that was.....he wasn't sure, and he backed away from the thought uneasily. There was just something about Hermione.

He thought he would be better off ignoring it.

_Summer, 1995_

It was raining out, a sudden summer storm, and Ron scowled the sound, checking his window every few minutes to see if it was letting up. He needed Pig to get this letter to Hermione pronto, to make sure she had gotten her parents permission to spend the rest of the summer with his family. It would be her longest visit yet, and he was shaky with nerves and excitement. His parents had told him that they wouldn't be staying here very long, but they wouldn't say where they were going. He knew it had something to do with Dumbledore, but they said he would find out later. Fred and George, hacked at being left out even though they were of age, had set about inventing ways to get around their mum. Ron knew that Dad would probably tell them more, if it was up to him, but he didn't blame him for not being willing to risk Mum’s wrath. A Howler was bad enough, but it wasn't a patch on what the live version was like. 

Part of him couldn't blame her for being more protective, after what had happened to Diggory just a few short weeks ago. He hadn't gotten a close look, but even at that distance, he had known that the older boy was dead. He had felt numb, watching as Harry clung to the corpse, the only thing anchoring him to the earth had been Hermione’s hands, fiercely grasping his arm. Ron had been afraid before; with all of the mental things they had done over the years, it would be bizarre if he hadn't been. But somehow, the death of someone that they _knew,_ someone so _young,_ really made it hit home how fast things were changing, and just how much was at risk.

And that wasn't the only thing changing, though he was still trying to adjust to the new revelations that had struck him. He had found out exactly what a Bludger felt like, when he saw Hermione at the Ball with Krum, and the pain slammed right into his gut. Things that had been carefully buried below the surface had shot to the top, and he knew there was no way to stuff them back down again. He wasn't sure he wanted to. All he really knew was that _he_ wanted to be the one at her side, and for her to look at him the way he had seen girls look at other blokes. He hadn't hashed out all the details, and he sure as hell wasn't going to make a move until he did; because, quite frankly, this development scared him almost as much as the prospect of fighting You-Know-Who.

He fancied Hermione Granger, and he hadn't a clue in the world what to do about it.

_Summer, 1996_

Lightning bugs tapped against his window, drawn by the light shining out from the lamp on his desk. Crumpled up sheets of parchment lay scattered about, lines of writing scribbled through and blotted out. He threw his quill down, and rubbed his face with his hands, frustrated at the words that just wouldn't come. How hard was it to tell a witch that you fancied her? Even Percy, the flaming git, had managed to get himself a girlfriend. And his own little sister could probably start her own Quidditch team with all of her exes. He had bungled his way through last year, hoping he would find a way to prove himself to her, or at least see a sign that she was open to the idea. But nothing had seemed to go right; he faintly recalled a kiss on the cheek, but he had been too sick with nerves at the time to enjoy it properly, and he didn't want to get his hopes up that she had meant it in more than a friendly way.

He had never actually flirted before, and didn't know how to go about it. He wasn't one for the soppy stuff that he had heard most girls liked, and he knew that Hermione wouldn't go for anything crude. Not that he thought he could manage that without his ears melting clean off his head, anyway; besides, he didn't want to give her the impression that that was all he was after, although he’d be lying if he said he didn't find the thought greatly appealing. 

But he was growing a bit more desperate. The fight at the Ministry was something he still had nightmares about, waking in a cold sweat, the scars coiling around his arms throbbing and aching. He had come closer than he was comfortable with to dying. He had hid it from Harry, who had been plunged in grief at the time, but those brains had very nearly strangled him to death. 

Yet, that wasn't the worst thing; at least to him. No, the worst thing had been waking up and rolling over to find Hermione stretched out on a bed in the hospital wing, as still and unmoving as she had been when she was Petrified. For a few agonizing heartbeats, he had thought she was dead, and a scream had started in the back of his throat, only to be cut off when he saw her chest rise slightly. On those nights, when everyone had left them, he had been able to piece together things from what she had told him, and what he overheard from others. They still weren't sure what spell had been used on her, but they considered it was a miracle she was still alive. The thought filled him with guilt; if they had just managed to stick together, maybe he could have......he didn't know. All he knew was that time felt like it was running out, and he was no closer to her than he had been before, and he might very well lose her before he even have her. And she seemed completely oblivious to all of the hints he had been tossing her way, and he was beginning to wonder if she was ignoring them on purpose.

He still fancied Hermione, but his heart was heavy with the near certainty that she would never feel the same.

_Summer, 1997_

Ron tiptoed out the back door and into the muggy night air, relieved to get away from the sounds of his mum and Fleur. The only noises were the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs down by the pond, and he stood still, enjoying the quiet and the sensation of the grass under his bare feet. He walked a short distance away from the house, careful to stay in the Wards. He shouldn't be out here, but everyone rushing about trying to get ready for the wedding was grating on his nerves. Even Bill, normally calm no matter what was thrown at him, was acting a mite edgy. Ron gulped, thinking about his oldest brother. He had been terrified when he had heard he had been attacked by Greyback; not many survived that, and fewer still managed to come away without becoming a werewolf themselves. 

Not that Ron had a problem with werewolves, in general. Sure, some were dangerous like Greyback, but most were just regular folks that had to take certain precautions once a month. But he had seen the way people treated Lupin, and the toll it had taken on the other man. That wasn't something he wanted for his brother; Bill had been someone he had looked up to ever since he could walk, and it pained him to think of others judging him for something he had no control over. Of course, they were going to do that anyway, what with his face being the way it was. The thought made him squirm guiltily. He had always been secretly jealous of Bill, partially because he knew witches considered him to be handsome. He wasn't handsome anymore, although he respected Fleur more than ever for still looking at him like he was. Ron wondered if that was a side effect of love, and if anyone would ever look at him like that if he were to somehow become disfigured.

Not that he would deserve it, he thought as his shoulders slumped. Not with some of the shit he had pulled this year. He still wasn't able to believe he had been prat enough to treat two girls so shabbily; he knew his mum would be ashamed, but no more than he was himself. Lavender wasn't for him, and he had always sort of known that. Just because it had been her to make the first move didn't mean it had been right for him to use her to make Hermione jealous. And Hermione.....how could you say you loved someone, and then treat them like that? And he knew, now that it might be too late, that he _did_ love her. He had been laboring under a false idea of what love really was all about, and it had taken Lavender to show him that. Love wasn't always light and easy, though there could be that, he knew from watching others. But love, real love, required a little more effort, some give, some take, and plenty of compromise. At Dumbledore’s funeral, he had been hit with the realization, as Hermione sobbed into his chest, that he would rather be holding her while she grieved than have Lavender on his lap snogging him senseless. Somehow, having Hermione come to him when she was crying and vulnerable was more intimate than all of the snogging and groping he had ever done with Lavender. 

Longingly, he stared in the direction of Hermione’s house, wishing it was time for her to arrive. He knew she was up to something; her last letter had been full of sadness, though she refused to tell him what was going on. He wanted to push the subject, but the book said to let her open up in her own time, so he was trying that first. He shivered, though there wasn't even a breeze in the air. He would feel better when she was within the Wards, and he could see that she was safe. Crimes against Muggleborns were on the rise, and he knew that she would be a tempting target to Death Eaters, who surely knew of her connection to Harry. He clenched his fists; he wasn't going to let anything happen to her, no matter what he had to do. If they got through this somehow, he would finally tell her how he felt. Until then, he would focus on keeping her safe; and if it came down to it, he would give himself to make sure she stayed alive. 

He loved Hermione. And love meant giving all that you had.

_Summer, 1998_

Somewhere outside, an owl hooted, and Ron held his breath, hoping it wouldn't wake Hermione. Neither of them had been sleeping well, but she had finally fallen asleep an hour ago, and he would hate it if she lost out on the rest she desperately needed. She was curled tightly on her side, her back nestled up against his front, his arm wrapped around her waist. The air was beginning to feel too warm, the Cooling Charm she had cast earlier tonight finally fading. He would have to cast another one soon, but he didn't want to move until he had to. It had been a week since the battle, and four days since Fred’s funeral. He was still exhausted, both events taking it out of him in completely different ways. He was haunted, when he actually slept, with dreams of Hogwarts, and the families and lives that had been torn apart and left in ruins like the castle he had once thought of as a second home. He didn't think it ever would again, not that he ever planned on going back long enough to find out. He knew Hermione would; it would be hell on her, but she wouldn't let it stop her. But he couldn't bear to think of that separation right now, not after losing so much. He finally had her where he wanted her, and even though things were far from perfect right now, he took comfort in her presence, and the love he finally knew she felt for him in return.

She would be going to Australia for her parents soon, and he would be going with her. He wasn't sure how they would get there, or what her parents would think when they learned what had been going on (or the fact that their daughter was now in possession of one very scrawny, ginger boyfriend), but he knew that Hermione would have it figured out, and all he really needed to do was support her so she didn't freak out too badly. Beside him, she gave a soft whimper, and he thought she was going to wake up. Instead, she flipped herself around, and burrowed into him with a sigh, and settled back into sleep. He studied her face in the dim light; it was still too thin, and there were circles under her eyes that he could make out clearly even now, but the sight of her there, in his arms, was probably one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his life. Things were far from alright, and they were both going to be messed up for a long time while they healed. It wasn't going to be easy, but then, had it ever been? 

He loved Hermione. Hermione loved him. Whatever happened, they would get through it together.

_Summer, 1999_

One of the benefits of being as tall as he was was the fact that he could easily see over most people’s heads, and he didn't have to bounce around on his tiptoes, like a certain specky squirt at his side. Ron smirked at the movement from his peripheral vision, but didn't take his focus off the track, wiling a certain red train to make its appearance. It had been ages since the last Hogsmeade visit, and he was tired of having to be content with letters, though he wrote enough to wear poor Pig out. The last year seemed to creep along and go by in a blur all at once, but it felt like everything had been leading up to the moment he finally saw her again. 

Ginny had kept an eye on her for him, being there for her when he couldn't; he loved his sister for that, but it just wasn't the same. He had spent summer holidays away from her before, so this shouldn't have been much different; but he found, especially when lying alone in bed at night, that it was like having a part of him missing, though it was a part he could still feel. 

He had tried to keep himself busy, helping George at the shop, and studying up on all of the Auror training materials he could get his hands on in the evenings. It had helped, but there was always that sense of _waiting,_ like things couldn't really get started until she got back. As the day had drawn nearer, he had practically began to vibrate with excitement, much to the amusement of all around him. Even George, who had been far too quiet, had taken evident delight in taking the mickey out of him. He had kept Ron in the shop right up until the last possible second; Ron had nearly had a heart attack when he had looked at the clock and saw that he was an hour late, until he caught George grinning like a prat and realized he had been tricked. He would’ve been furious, but it was more important to see his brother looking out from the depressed fog that had been consuming him, and he wasn't actually late. So he had flipped George off, ran to the back room to change out of the putrid robes that the staff were forced to wear, and had Apparated away. 

Though not before spiking George’s coffee with a melted Puking Pastille. 

His heart began to beat faster as the train pulled into the station, and everything around him ceased to matter. He was vaguely aware of Harry saying something, but whatever it was could wait. Students began to emerge, but none of them with the bushy brown hair his eyes were straining to see. People began to crowd around him, pushing and jostling, and he lost sight of anything but the bald head of the large man in front of him for a small eternity. When he finally pushed his way past, he found her standing with her luggage cart, Crookshanks glaring out from the confines of his wicker basket. Hermione was looking back and forth, searching the crowd. Big, brown eyes landed on him, and he froze in place as her face lit up; before he could move, she was barreling towards him, and all he could do was brace in time to catch her as she launched herself into his arms.

They ignored the stares of people around them, clinging to each other and laughing with the sort of joy that just seemed to bubble up, unable to be contained. This, he felt, was it; the last train ride, the last real summer of youth before they began to dive into their careers. But it was also the first. The first time they were coming together, with no real long separations in their future to divide them. Their lives, which had been running on two close, though different tracks, were now finally starting to merge into one, the rest of their lives spreading out before them with a multitude of possibilities that they would explore together. There were things they still had to decide on, things that had to be talked about. But there was at least one thing that he knew with a certainty. While he had been lonely, he had managed to get on fine without her. But he loved her, and that meant that while he _could,_ he didn't _want_ to; and the difference was a choice that you made when someone was really and truly worth it.

And that was something, he would tell his children years later, that made all the difference. 

 


End file.
